Tahany Is Dead

In my childhood, I loved eating raw sugar. On that particular day, I put a handful of it in my palm and began licking my hand, as if it were a lollipop, until my hand got wet with my saliva.

Meanwhile, my grandmother, who was over a hundred years old, was sitting in the living room, listening to the Holy Quran on a radio she held to her ear. The radio was plugged into a power source. The electrical wire was attached to the opposite wall, with a bare section in the middle.

Being a stubborn child, I insisted on crawling under it. To my misfortune, I let go of both ends of the wire and grabbed it with my wet hands right in the middle, at the exposed part.

The wire wrapped around my hand, and I began thrashing violently on the ground, convulsing from the electric shock. My body turned blue, my pupils dilated, and then I lost consciousness.

My mother rushed out of the kitchen at the sound of the crash. When she saw me, her feet froze in sheer shock; they tangled beneath her, and her mind went blank. She began running about wildly, right and left, slapping her cheeks and crying out for help.

My uncle Hamza, our neighbor, heard her and came running at top speed. He went straight to the power source and yanked the plug out forcefully. My body convulsed several times, like the tremor of death throes, then went still, without movement or breath.

The women of the neighborhood gathered around me, cloaked in black, wailing and lamenting. Within moments the news spread throughout the village, and the word went around: “Tahany is dead.”

Our neighbor, Mr. Ahmed, came to console my family. He sat beside me, checking my condition, then suddenly jolted upright and exclaimed, “She still has a pulse!”

My mother lifted me in her arms, clutching me tightly, and rushed me to the hospital. Mr. Ahmed and a group of volunteers followed to help with the emergency.

As for my grandmother, who had been born deaf, she was sitting in the other corner, holding a recorder to her ear, oblivious to everything going on around her.

At that very same moment, my aunt Umm Mohammed, our neighbor in the house across the way, was screaming and crying out from the pain of labor. Minutes later, she gave birth to a baby girl and decided to name her “Tahany,” in my memory after the news of my death had spread.

Little Tahany grew up and became a beautiful girl—tall, cheerful-faced, with gentle features and a kind nature. She later married and had four children.

Many years after that incident, I too got married. I left my family, neighbors, and the neighborhood, and emigrated with my husband to the United States.

Before social media became widespread, staying in touch with home was difficult. Contact with my family was limited because international calls were expensive in those days, and traveling to visit them was also impossible for various reasons. Yet I would melt with longing and yearning for them, for my neighbors, my friends, and the people of my small village.

After two long years, I was able to return for a limited time. As soon as I left the airport, I headed straight to my family’s house.

As I was approaching the door, I caught sight of our neighbor Umm Mohammed from afar. I felt as though she did not want to speak to me and was avoiding me.

She walked toward me with slow steps, her face pale and her eyes full of sadness. Then she hugged me very coldly and, in a low, broken voice, said, “Thank God you’re safe.”

I tried to ignore the feeling that something was wrong, so I asked her, “How are you, Aunt Umm Mohammed? And how is Tahany?”

In a choked voice, tears streaming down her face, she answered, “Tahany is dead!!!”

Little Tahany died, my mother, grandmother died, my rescuer—my uncle Hamza—and the first responder, Mr. Ahmed, died as well. And I am the one left here to tell you this story.

- Tahany Azzab