I thought I knew my father well enough to hate him. Although it’s challenging to know someone who's never around. The brief times he was, he rested alone. While present, he was detached, and his absence was a constant companion. His excuse was his secretive work. My loving mother always deflected my curiosity. I suspected he was some kind of desert guide for at least nine months of the year. He was a man of three forked tongues but few words who’d rather test me on basic conversational English and French than chat with me in Arabic.
On my fourteenth birthday, I received protective desert clothes and goggles.
‘It’s time you earned your keep,’ my father, Ruwwad, said, ‘Get changed. Quickly now, boy.’ I felt blindsided, confused and nervous.
‘Aren’t you excited, Sameh?’ My mother said, rubbing my shoulder while giving me a novel smile. Despite my curiosity, spending any protracted period with my father sounded unappealing.
We joined a European company at a stable on the edge of town. Ruwwad introduced me to an energetic, portly gentleman.
‘Good…day…to…you…My…name…is…James…Watts,’ the Englishman said with excessive clarity.
‘Good morning, sir. I’m Sameh; the pleasure is mine,’ I replied as fluently as possible, extending my hand.
‘Oh, well now, jolly good boy, jolly good,’ he replied, almost forgetting to avoid shaking my hand.
‘We were sorry to hear about King George the Third, too.’ His astonishment rewarded my years of study.
‘I suppose he’s a hero around here since we got rid of the French for you. Bright lad you have here, Ruwwad.’ I thought I saw a hint of amusement and pride on my father's face, but the mirage quickly faded. We embarked on camelback into the Sahara Desert. It stretched endlessly, a mesmerising sea of golden dunes, concealing ancient secrets lost to the sands of time.
Once the sun passed its zenith, I asked my father, ‘Time for Zuhr Salah?’
‘Make it quick. I’ll inform the others,’ he said. I dismounted and rolled out my prayer rug. ‘And perform Tayammum, not Wudu. Save your water,’ he added.
I sank my feet, searching for cooler sand and scooped the Sahara to scrub my face and hands, feeling more spiritually connected than ever. I began my raka'at, expecting my father to join me soon and improve my orientation. He didn’t. Afterwards, I confronted him.
‘The Englishmen needed me. I’ll catch up later,’ he said. I didn’t witness him pray the entire trip.
That evening at camp, the Englishmen took to alcohol and merriment. James Watts skipped over to our fire.
‘So, did you venture inside? Tell me again what you saw.’
‘I didn’t go far,’ my father replied, ‘but it’s undoubtedly Egyptian this time.’
‘Did ya hear that, lads? It’s Egyptian!’ He returned to his cheering companions. My initial shock quickly became moral outrage.
‘You’ve been helping Europeans plunder Egypt?’ I said.
‘That bothers you?’ retorted Ruwwad.
‘Selling our heritage to the highest bidder? Yes, a lot.’
‘Our heritage? You worship the sun god Ra? Write in hieroglyphics?’
‘Of course not, but-’
‘You’d prefer they only looted Greek and Roman artefacts?’
‘I suppose, but it’s not theirs-’
‘1000 years ago, there were more Christians than Muslims here.’
‘Okay, but not English-’
‘Egypt’s history is one of conquest and mingling cultures, religions and peoples.’
‘Isn’t this just disrespectful?’
‘To whom? Pharaohs who buried hoarded wealth for their afterlives? That’s against the teachings of Islam.’
‘Well, Islam didn’t exist back then.’
‘Okay, smartarse. This is just the rich and powerful robbing each other. How dare you judge me? It’s how we and the other locals, hired to excavate, survive. If I weren’t doing this, someone else would, you naive brat.’ This wasn’t a conversation, just the barrage of every rehearsed excuse. I felt each grain of sand slip through my fingers as I explored the infinite cosmos above me, feeling more isolated and insignificant than ever. He made me question my faith, heritage and place in Egypt, and I despised him for that.
After finishing Zuhr Salah the next day, my father approached me. ‘Planning on raising an army to invade Rome and reclaim what their ancestors stole 2000 years ago?’ I didn’t bite. ‘The site is behind that dune. Will you lead us there or tell James we’re lost and better head back?’
‘Wait, we can just go home?’ I asked.
‘Sure. Of course, we’ll get paid less than ragpickers and become unhirable. So, was this all meaningless, or would you prefer to feed yourself and your mother?’ I hesitated. Overwhelmed by the pressure of this sudden responsibility. Before me, my father’s uneven footprints, caused by the wound he earned during the three-year French occupation, led to James Watts. The winds picked up, erasing them. They shared a heated exchange, and James struck my father. He returned sheepishly, ‘Satisfied?’
I raced over to James, ‘Sorry for my father, sir, he got distracted while teaching me. I believe the site is just over this dune.’
‘Lead on, son,’ said James.
Sure enough, we found the mostly buried entrance to the site. James threw a sack of billon coins to my father.
‘Here, boy,’ he flipped a coin to me. It was gold, the first I’d ever held.
‘Come on, we’re leaving,’ Ruwwad said.
‘Will they make it home safely?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure their camels could. If there’s one thing their people excel at besides violence, it’s navigation. If they respect the desert, they’ll be fine.’ I wondered how you could respect something while violating it.
An unwelcome feeling spurred us home. High above us, a hawk flew as an escort. ‘Look, father,’ I said, ‘That hawk’s been following us!’
Eventually, my father indulged me and turned around. His bored expression turned to dismay. Behind us, the earth was suffocating the clouds. An inevitable wall of sand stalked its prey.
‘We need shelter,’ he said. He efficiently scanned our surroundings.
‘There are some trees over there!’ I said, rushing onward.
‘No, wait. Stop! …follow. Now.’ He galloped to the top of a dune and led us toward a small rock formation. Turbulent sand whipped my skin and disoriented me. My father took my reins and helped me down. Our camels calmly knelt behind boulders. We huddled beside them. The unrelenting storm raged around us.
‘You okay?’ Said Ruwwad.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Between the deafening storm and my raging heartbeat, I could barely hear him, yet he looked blasé. ‘Are we safe?’
‘As long as there’s no lightning.’
I then understood the significance of his expertise. Years of bravely wandering this unyielding terrain had honed his knowledge and instincts.
‘Are the Englishmen trapped in this, too?’ I asked.
‘Probably. It’s an angry one,’ said Ruwwad.
‘Do you think they’re alright?’
‘Does it matter? You don’t want them excavating anyway, and we've already been paid.’ I scrunched the sand in my fists. Everything was binary to the man. With nothing to do but wait, I realised he was trapped there with me. A desire to scream at him was building, to release the dam holding 14 years of bitter, poisoned water. I didn’t care for money. It couldn’t reverse time, shorten the distance between us or make me forget. Before me was an exhausted, broken, insecure man seeking validation for his chosen path. I couldn’t say I wished he’d done it all differently, without the secrets, risks and hardships. I didn’t need to hurt my father to learn from him. I rolled over, turning my back to him.
That night, I prayed to Allah for strength, patience and wisdom to survive my father and for the enlightenment to save him.
‘Praying to Ma’at and Isis for forgiveness, are you?’ interrupted Ruwwad.
‘Just Allah,’ I said.
‘Do they approve of you helping rid these lands of pagan antiques or chastise you for enriching the infidel Englishmen?’
‘You can ask them yourself.’
‘The only thing worth worshipping here is the desert. She was merciful to you today.’ The Sahara was his silent confidante and harshest critic. Between his jabs was an offensive odour.
‘What’s that awful smell?’
‘Over there. A pack of them.’ Upwind, four jackals observed us.
‘Will they attack?’
‘If they wanted to, we wouldn’t smell them coming.’
The remainder of our homecoming was made in uncomfortable silence. I resigned my efforts to understand or change him, and he seemed satisfied with his manipulations. Sand had slithered into every crevice of my being. The same hawk followed us to the stables. My father unsaddled the camels and petted them. ‘Great job out there, so courageous. I’m proud of you both,’ he whispered. I’d just witnessed two camels surpass my lifetime of paternal endearment.
I slinked home as if I’d be lynched. My mother was tiredly choring when I flung myself into her embrace. She leaned back and gave this apologetic, knowing look. She brushed the sand out of my hair, and her emerald eyes sought forgiveness in mine. I offered a half-smile, and she beamed in return, pulling me close. I was a 14-year-old kid again. Feelings of guilt and shame came bubbling up, and I cried into her shoulder.
Against my wishes, my father brought me along for the next three years. Our ethical debates improved, and his abuse softened. I shared his burdens, though we remained antagonistic.
He concealed his sickness until he passed. I’m grateful I got to know and forgive him. I never returned to the desert after that, though not for lack of work. That ifrit had already escaped the bottle. European curiosity became obsession over the 12 years before the Khedive, Muhammad Ali, banned the export and trade of Egyptian antiques to other countries.
Our desert incursions serve as poignant reminders that history is a tapestry of choices, each coloured by the complexities of the human experience and woven by the victors. We are all products of our time and circumstances, navigating a world fraught with moral ambiguity. I learned much from your grandfather, although the lion’s share was not from his lessons. I didn’t share this story to undermine your faith or sense of belonging. Instead, I’m asking for your guidance because I believe the decision of how much time is devoted to working instead of with his family shouldn’t be made by a father alone.
