We are all storytellers in a way. It’s a fundamental part of how we communicate as communities—big and small. That is what The Anthology is about: to lend Esquire Middle East’s historic platform to a new generation of short story writers, and champion the art of the written word in the GCC.
In partnership with Montblanc, each edition of The Anthology will feature a short story written by a regional writer, giving them the opportunity to take a further step in helping telling their stories, express themselves and fulfilling their potential. It’ll be Esquire’s privilege to share it.
She grew up in a house where no one taught anyone. She learned right from wrong through experiences, and the consequences that came with them. Her imagination often improved the way things were around her, making them seem easier to deal with.
Sometimes she sees stillness better than she sees movement. In those times she will remain motionless for about an hour taking it all in, focused on the still. There are other times when she sees intense enthusiasm in the unknown, taking to the dangerous edges of cliffs as a safe place, not unlike a mountain goat. But pleasures don’t come without a price, as the consequences of her appreciation of stillness and movement often made people question her intelligence at school. Only one teacher every described her as a genius, but the rest described her as a child with a severe form of attention deficit disorder. They often, ironically (and cruelly), called her “The Tornado”.
She was raised by her grandparents, so the world seemed very big to her in that little village.
Raised by a grandfather and grandmother who spent half the time trying to remind each other of stories from the past that seem easier to erase than to remember. Raised by grandparents who were more likely to bump into doors and forget their granddaughter’s school schedule, because they spent half their day asleep.
The granddaughter used to count the vast differences between the grandparents in their many moments of sleep, and she did not miss the distinction of the only thing they had in common, at the moment of waking up at any time of the long hours of the day, which was saying the same phrase every time: “Why didn’t this little one sleep yet?”.
One evening, while the grandmother was sitting on the floor, her fingers relaxed over a bowl, sifting flour, some weevil’s appeared for a moment from under her fingers. The weevils shiny blackness a stark contrast against the white flour, before returning to disappear into the depths of the whiteness like her memory. She then turned in panic, as if the walls of the room were narrowing for her, she asked out loud in a voice that was filled with tears: “Where is Omar? Omar? Omar!”
Across the room, the saliva glistened in the corners of the startled grandfather’s mouth. The only reaction is a pitiful groan that passes his lips as he is again reminded of the son who died in a horrific traffic accident three years ago. He has learnt that talking about it won’t alter reality, so he doesn’t like to mention Omar’s name out loud like his wife does.
The granddaughter looks up from the notebook that was busy writing in while lying on the ground. She was writing lines as a punishment imposed on her by her strict and always grumpy Arabic language teacher. She had been writing the same phrase, page after page, in order to improve her handwriting. Her handwriting does not improve, and her fingers swell. She is clutching a sweet in her left hand to relieve the pain of writing, and picks up the ghutra that her grandfather only wears on Friday prayers, with the other hand. She stands between the grandmother’s thighs, where there is a gap narrow enough for two small feet of a seven year old to stand, due to the relatively low consumption of meat in the family’s diet. She stands there with thick hair and long eyelashes, a head taller than the grandmother, then she raises her right hand and throws the ghutra in a unstructured and drooping manner over her head, covering all of her head and most of her face. She drops the tone of her voice to make it sound more masculine: “It is I, grandma. I am Omar,” she says.
The grandmother gives her the sweetest smile, raising her head upwards, as she used to do when talking to Omar, her tallest son. In an instant the expressions on her face changes like the crack of blue breaking through a cloudy sky: “But Omar doesn’t eat sweets!” The granddaughter replied quickly: “Nor do I”.
In that moment, she releases the lollypop that she was still holding, landing in grandma’s bowl of flour. A silent puff of dust plumes into the air. Slowing the weevils begin to resurface from of their hiding places making their way towards to the sweet flavour of berries.
About the author
Born in Jeddah in 1982, Fatima Abdulhamid is a Saudi Arabian writer whose captivating narratives have earned her accolades on both regional and international stages. After pursuing a degree in psychology and navigating careers in teaching and psychology, Abdulhamid found her true voice in literature. Her debut short story collection, Like a Paper Plane (2010), soared into the literary scene, followed by several critically acclaimed novels: The Edge of Silver (2013), Feminine Taa (2016), and her latest masterpiece, The Highest Part Of The Horizon (2022).
This latter work, a satirical black comedy narrated by the Angel of Death, ascended to the prestigious shortlist of the Arabic Booker Prize, solidifying Abdulhamid’s position as a vital voice in contemporary Arab literature. Her insightful explorations of human behavior, nuanced portrayals of complex characters, and evocative use of language continue to captivate readers and cement her place as a rising star in the Arab literary firmament.