In the bookshop, my boss let me type a few letters. Today I typed “Dear Mr. Hound” instead of “Dear Mr. Pound.” Thank God my boss checked the letter. Then he said, “If I want to put Mr. Pound off, all I have to do is tell you to write him a letter. For then he will be Dearest Hound, and the book he ordered wasn’t on swans but swines, and our Kindest wishes will become our Blindest fishes.”
August 3 — The second issue is ready! I have typed quite a lot. Habib wrote about corruption. He condoned the bribe-taking of petty officials who need the money to feed their children, but attacked the venality of the ministers who are bleeding the country.
I also wrote about the poor students who, at too young an age, have to leave school and go to work.
Again Mahmud thought up really great questions. The first one was: “Have you already read the first issue of the sock-newspaper?”
We urged all people fortunate enough to have learned to read and write to make their own newspapers. Habib came up with a lovely sentence: “Communication is the responsibility of every human being; don’t leave it to the government!”
Sunday — We have run off six hundred copies. On Friday Mahmud and I carried the socks to the marketplace; again they sold in a flash. Then we walked through the bazaar and looked at the stands. We saw a man with a dancing bear — a piteous animal, emaciated and sad, its body covered with scars. It hobbled around, and Mahmud said he was sure the bear was crying and that bears, like people, understand everything. How humiliating this dance would be if the bear really has feelings as we do.
August 6 — Today Uncle Salim told me the story of a sultan who, on an outing, came upon a picturesque village and wanted to stop and rest there. He dismounted from his horse, and the peasants threw their jackets under his feet so his shoes would not get dusty. They were delighted because he was the first ruler ever to visit their village.
A huge table was conjured forth and set up on the village square. Immediately a great feast was prepared: mutton stuffed with almonds, raisins, and rice; salad; cheese; wine. The sultan was amazed at the people’s wealth and exclaimed loudly that their harvest tax would be doubled. Then he began to eat. He ate like a bull, wheezing, belching, and gorging himself.
Suddenly the sultan felt tired. He looked all around and announced to his soldiers, “No one may leave the table before I awaken.” The soldiers drew their swords and held the men in check. The sultan snored away. Night fell. The men grew weary, but the soldiers changed watch and commanded those present to remain at the table. The sultan went on sleeping blissfully. Morning came; the men were faint with fatigue, but the sultan still dozed. At noon he finally woke up in a bad mood, with a stiff neck. He cursed the village in which a guest could not even get a soft bed; then he rode off.
Since that day the peasants no longer lay their jackets at a visitor’s feet. Instead, they are suspicious and sometimes throw stones at him to send him on his way.
August 8 — Radio Israel, Radio Jordan, and BBC London have reported on the second edition of our newspaper. Habib said that in the third issue he will settle up with all the various parties; he will show that in Syria there is no opposition among them. We also decided, beginning with that issue, to run a small literary column.
August 12 — Uncle Salim and my father have become enthusiastic followers of the newspaper. My father listens to BBC London and was very taken with the third question: “Do you happen to know how many days a week a baker works? (The answer is seven, because bakers, despite a decades-long battle, still don’t have a day off.) And how many days in his life does a big landowner work? (The answer is approximately zero.)”
August 17 — Damascus is most beautiful at dawn. Today I awakened from a dream and crept out of my room onto the terrace. The street sweepers had just finished up on our street. They shouldered their long brooms and walked home with slow strides. They looked tired. I had an idea about what street sweepers and bakers have in common, but now, in the afternoon, I can’t think what it was.
August 18 — Somehow or other the paper has changed me. I look at things more carefully, and when I see or hear something, questions more than answers rise up in me. I also love Nadia very much, and I’m certain we belong together. This gives me peace of mind.
When I read my early diary entries today, I was ashamed. I would have liked to tear them out. But I have sworn not to alter anything, so all of it will remain. There was much I would have forgotten if I had not immediately made my notes. I have also become far more diligent. Whether I’m content, sad, or indifferent, I write it down. Habib already has more than ten volumes in all.
August 20 — Last night I sat long on the terrace, looking at the stars. I wanted to write a poem about the night, but my thoughts kept straying and ended up with Nadia. If only she could lie beside me for a few moments, and in the freshness of the night we could gaze at the stars together!
A few days ago Nadia said to me, “Sometimes I wish your head lay on my pillow so we could share the same dream.”
I have no further wishes anymore.
August 21 — The third issue went off very smoothly today. It is even more readable than the first two. Mahmud’s questions and my story about the cunning inhabitants of Homs, who for centuries have affected lunacy, worked out well.
The owner of the sock factory suspiciously asked us our names and where we lived. Of course we made something up, but we have to be careful. The secret service has been getting very sharp. Habib is extraordinarily fearful for us.
August 24 — Today we had a close call. I spread out my cloth in front of a cinema in the new quarter. The cheap socks attracted passersby, and within a short time I had sold three-quarters of our wares. Mahmud kept a lookout nearby. Suddenly a well-dressed man tore open a package of socks and grabbed me by the collar. Mahmud noticed this and, like greased lightning, rammed into the man so forcefully from behind that he toppled over and hit the ground. I slipped out of his grip and ran as fast as I could. The man screamed, “Stop! Thief! Stop! Thief!” in the hope that passersby would help, but no one did.
As I scaled a wall and ran down an alley on the other side, children playing with marbles cried out in terror. A woman gazing out a window called to her neighbor, “Just look how pale the poor boy is!”
As I came to a busy street, I put on the brakes, slowing my pace. I walked into the first cafe I saw and ordered a lemonade. I had to sit for half an hour before I felt strength in my knees again. My boss was grouchy, but he’s been like that a lot lately. The bookshop is not doing so well. We have competition.
Habib was utterly appalled and proud at the same time. He said we have to find a new way, always look for new ways, and not use the same ones too long. In Aleppo, he learned through a friend, three groups also producing sock-newspapers have been caught.
August 27 — Neither the Israeli nor the Jordanian broadcasters have said a word about our third edition, even though (thanks to Habib’s courage — he stuffed the paper into over three hundred mailboxes) it was far more widely distributed. Habib said they probably were keeping silent so the disgruntled masses in other countries would not make their own sock-newspapers.
There must still be some other clever way!
August 29 — Nadia asked me why I’ve been so aggressive lately. I’m sorry I can’t tell her, but I don’t want to put her in jeopardy.