The Age of Reason

Karim El Hayawan

Children do not yet know the world as we know it . They have their own ways of encoding and decoding . They rename what they find and endow it with a different dimension . Only later, when they are grown and obliged to fit their understanding and their behaviour to ours, do they accept that the clouds are not a giant’s breath, and the stars are not pinpricks in the black velvet of the sky .

Hashem was different .

Hashem was a realistic child to the point of terror . From the day he set foot on the land of this world between two journeys, he was without illusion and saw life in its true form .

‘You told me sparrows wouldn’t turn into crows, right, Mama?’ Hashem said, my seven-year-old child .

‘No, darling . Sparrows are sparrows and crows are crows . ’

‘Can the birds give up their colours and only become black and white?’

‘No, Hashem . Crows are black but other birds will keep their colours until the end of time . ’

‘Are you sure, Mama?’

‘Yes, Hashem .’ I was sure . I didn’t know then what a seven-yearold knew .

He wanted to believe me . I was his mother . But he shook his head . The fabric of comforting illusion was torn, and Hashem could not help but see through the tear . He said, ‘No, Mama . ’

It is hard now to remember the brightness of those colours . Now that they are just a distant memory .

Now that the crows prevail .