Chapter One: "An Ordinary Life"
The waiting room was narrow, bathed in harsh white light from the ceiling lamps. The blue plastic chairs were arranged in precise rows, and on the opposite wall hung a large wall clock, its hands moving slowly, its faint ticking cutting through the silence every few seconds.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Three young men sat waiting for their turn. The first flipped through his papers nervously, his lips moving silently. The second was engrossed in his phone, his features relaxed. The third sat quietly, legs crossed, staring ahead.
In the last seat sat a young man in a crisply ironed white shirt. His tie was dark blue, fastened tighter than necessary. His eyes darted between the door, the clock, and the other faces, then returned to the floor.
He read his name on the call sheet: "Yusuf."
The young man seated to his right—the one who had been absorbed in his phone—looked up and asked in a low voice:
— "Your first time?"
Yusuf glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, then shook his head:
— "Third."
— "Here?"
— "No. Different places."
The young man nodded:
— "This is my fourth interview in two months. Interviews have become like mandatory visits for us."
Yusuf laughed quietly:
— "At least now you know the way without maps."
They exchanged a brief look, something of silent understanding passing between them.
The door opened, and a secretary with stern features appeared, carrying a file. She glanced at her paper:
— "Mr. Yusuf."
He stood. His steps appeared confident outwardly, but his heart pounded fiercely. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.
---
A wooden desk sat in the center of the room. Behind it sat a balding man in a gray suit, his glasses reflecting the light. To his right, a woman took notes; to his left, a young man tapped his fingers on the table with impatience.
The man said:
— "Please, have a seat."
Yusuf sat, placing his hands on his knees.
— "Introduce yourself."
— "Yusuf. I am twenty-four years old. A graduate in Business Administration."
— "Experience?"
— "I trained at two companies during my studies."
— "Do you work well under pressure?"
— "If the pressure is structured, yes."
The man looked at him for a moment, then asked:
— "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Yusuf hesitated briefly. He said:
— "In a place where I know I am useful."
A short silence.
— "Do you have a recommendation?"
He paused for a fraction of a second. Then he said:
— "No."
The man looked at him, then exchanged glances with his colleagues.
— "Thank you for coming. We will contact you later."
Yusuf offered a small smile and left.
---
In the hallway, he loosened his tie slowly. He felt something release in his chest. He was neither angry nor discouraged. He only felt that this scene had repeated itself too many times.
He paused for a moment at a window overlooking the street. He looked down: small cars, people moving in every direction. Each one seemed to know where they were going.
---
He exited the towering glass building. The street was wide, clean, its pavements paved with elegant stones. The shops here sold expensive things: clothes in illuminated displays, watches in glass cases, restaurants from which unfamiliar aromas wafted. Pedestrians hurried, their clothes stylish, their gazes fixed ahead.
At the curb, modern cars were lined up. Everything here pointed to wealth and order.
Yusuf walked down this street, feeling like a stranger within it. Then he turned into one of the alleyways and entered another world.
---
Here, the alleys were narrow, paved with old stones whose edges had worn away. The walls were low, marked by moisture stains and scribbled writings. Electrical wires tangled overhead. The shops were small, their facades modest, their goods displayed on the sidewalks: vegetables and fruit in wooden crates.
The scent here was different: fresh bread, spices, cheap perfumes, and occasionally the smell of sewage.
The sounds were louder: vendors calling out, children running and shouting, a radio playing old songs.
The people here were different too: women in headscarves carrying bags of vegetables, men in loose shirts sitting at local cafés, elderly women on wooden chairs outside their homes, moving their prayer beads and watching the passersby.
The difference between the two places was not merely in distance. It was in everything: in the smell of the air, the color of the walls, the tone of the voices, the look in the eyes. Two worlds separated by only a few hundred meters.
Yusuf walked through this neighborhood he had known since birth. He felt that here, among these cracked walls and tired faces, was his true place.
He heard a voice calling him:
— "Yusuf!"
He turned and saw a young man his age, in casual clothes with a wide smile. It was Karim, his neighbor and childhood friend.
— "Hey, Karim. How are you?"
— "Good, praise God. And you? I saw you leaving this morning. An interview?"
— "Yes."
— "How did it go?"
Yusuf shrugged:
— "As usual."
Karim understood. He didn't ask further. He said:
— "Mukhtar Mahmoud is looking for you. He stopped by the shop."
— "Thanks. I'll go to him."
They parted ways. Yusuf continued walking.
---
The carpentry shop was in a side alley. Its old iron door was half open. The scent of wood drifted from inside, mixed with glue and varnish. The sound of the saw echoed.
He pushed the door and entered. The space was small, crowded with wood scraps and tools hanging on the walls. In the corner, Mukhtar Mahmoud was bent over a cutting machine.
He raised his head, saw Yusuf, and stopped the machine. He approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder for a moment. He asked nothing, said nothing. He merely gestured toward a small table where the orders were piled.
Yusuf understood the meaning. He had known Mukhtar Mahmoud since childhood. The man was a friend of his late father. After his father passed away, he came to their house, took out a sum of money, and told his mother: "This is for my nephew's care. There is no need to return it."
Since then, he had been like a second father to him.
His way of communicating was silent, yet unmistakable.
He walked to the table. He had to complete the orders before noon, as he had a lecture at the university.
He began working: measuring, cutting, sanding. He immersed himself in the wood and tools, losing track of time.
After a while, he heard a voice behind him:
— "Peace be upon you."
He turned and found a man in his forties, dressed modestly, standing hesitantly at the door.
— "And upon you peace. Please, come in."
The man entered:
— "I came for the order. The small cabinet."
Yusuf remembered it. A simple request, a cabinet with a few shelves. He went to the corner, brought the cabinet, and placed it before the man.
The man examined it, then took a small plastic bag from his pocket. He opened it and took out a few coins. He placed them on the table. It wasn't even half the price.
He looked at Yusuf with an apologetic gaze:
— "This is all I have right now. Times are hard. I will bring the rest when things ease up. I have known Mukhtar Mahmoud for a long time."
Yusuf fell silent. He looked at Mukhtar Mahmoud. The old man had stopped working and was watching them in silence. In his eyes, Yusuf saw the look of a man who had lived much and witnessed more—a look that asked nothing, commanded nothing.
Yusuf sighed. He said quietly:
— "Take it. May God ease your burden."
The man looked at him with gratitude, picked up the cabinet, and left.
Yusuf gathered the coins and placed them in the drawer. He looked at the clock: noon was approaching. He had to go.
He cleaned his workspace and headed toward the door. Before stepping out, he said:
— "I'll return after the lecture, Uncle."
The old man raised his hand slightly. Yusuf understood.
He stepped out and ran toward the bus stop.
---
He reached the stop out of breath. It was crowded with people: students with bags, workers in worn clothes, women carrying children. Everyone was waiting.
From a distance, he heard the rough growl of an engine. The bus appeared. Old, its paint faded, some of its windows broken.
The door opened, and everyone surged forward in chaos. Yusuf pushed with the crowd, climbed aboard, gripped a metal rail, and squeezed himself into the crush.
The inside was suffocating.
Overlapping smells: sweat, cheap perfumes, food. The air was heavy. He clutched his bag tightly in his hand—his phone had been pickpocketed once in such a crush. Painful memories had made him more vigilant.
The bus began to move. With every bump, he was pressed further into the crowd. He looked out the window: streets passed by, shops, people. Everything familiar.
Stations came and went. Some passengers got off, others boarded. Yusuf remained standing.
After about fifteen minutes, the doors opened at his stop. He stepped off as if emerging from beneath water. He took a deep breath.
---
Before him stood the university. A modest gray building, rusted iron gates, a courtyard paved with cracked tiles. It was not a great university, but it was his university.
He had spent four years here, and he was still in his final year. Here he learned, here he struggled, here he made his friendships.
Here were his memories: his first day walking in, the exams he stayed up for, the professor who encouraged him, the friends with whom he shared ideas and interests.
His academic standing was good—always among the top of his class. Not because he spent hours studying, but because he was organized and used his time well.
He did not have the luxury of negligence; he was also occupied with work.
He entered the courtyard.
It was bustling with students: groups here and there, some reading, some laughing, some arguing.
The smell of cheap coffee drifted from the nearby cafeteria.
He headed toward the lecture hall. In the corridors, he exchanged quick greetings with familiar faces.
He reached the door of the hall. It was nearly full. The old wooden seats barely contained everyone. He looked for a spot and found one in the third row by the window. He sat, placing his bag on the floor.
He spotted Fouad entering through the door. A slim young man with glasses, a heavy bag on his shoulder. His eyes searched, and when he saw Yusuf, he smiled. He approached and sat beside him.
Fouad whispered:
— "Arrived five minutes before the professor. Thank God."
— "I was afraid you'd be absent. The professor takes attendance in the first five minutes."
— "I wouldn't miss it. I have a question."
Yusuf took out his notebook:
— "Ask."
— "Are you still thinking about work, or have you settled on something?"
Yusuf fell silent for a moment. This question had been echoing in his mind for weeks. He said in a low voice:
— "Still searching. Like mice in a maze."
Fouad laughed quietly:
— "Mice eventually find the cheese. We haven't found any cheese yet."
Before Yusuf could respond, the professor entered. An elderly man in a faded gray suit, papers and a book in his hand. Silence fell. He began his lecture in a monotone voice about management theories.
Yusuf took out his notebook and began taking notes. But his mind wandered. He thought about where he would be in a year, where he would end up. They were just random thoughts that came to him suddenly, unlike him; he didn't usually dwell on such things.
He looked out the window. Outside, the sky was gray, a tree branch swaying in the wind. Students passed through the courtyard, their lives continuing.
He wondered to himself: How many more days will pass like this? Will this routine ever end? Will I ever find something that changes my life?
He did not know the answer.
He turned to Fouad, who was diligently taking notes. He returned his attention to the lecture.
Outside, the wind stirred. A dark cloud began to appear from behind the building, gradually obscuring the faint sunlight. Some students in the courtyard looked up at the sky, and the tree's branches swayed more fiercely.
Yusuf did not notice.
He was still taking notes, unaware that something was moving on the horizon, drawing closer slowly.
---