THE PHOENIX BURNS
Diaries of the City of Umm Bujma
I stumbled upon these papers by chance, in the wooden rest house overlooking the Gulf of Suez, in the mountainous city of Umm Bujma, amid one of my many journeys through the vast Sinai desert. This city once throbbed with the vibrant lives of Egyptian mine workers, under a shrewd and oppressive British administration. It also bore tales of strange rulers, yet to be fully chronicled in a coherent narrative. A guide from the Bedouins of Sarabit Al-Khadem led me to the city’s gate, unlocked the massive metal door with his key, and said:
arabic poems
“It’s only opened for tourist groups—but you resemble ‘Adham’. That’s why I opened it for you…”
It seemed he referred to a legendary figure. I smiled without asking who Adham was. I understood from his smile that it was meant as a compliment.
We passed through the gate and found no soul inside. Traces of miners remained: dormitories, a cable car—I could sense the memory of that pulsing life behind this desolate emptiness. The guide asked why I had come. I replied:
“I hope to climb the mountain. I yearn to see the sea from up there…”
He hesitated thoughtfully, though his tone remained warm and hospitable:
“You’ll go alone. Climbing the mountain is an adventure. I’ll lend you my car if you wish.”
He pointed to a four-wheel-drive vehicle parked near a still-active manganese plant. I thanked him and accepted the "adventure" by noon. I took the car and it swayed across the rugged mountain paths until I stood face to face with the empty dorms where the workers once lived. I continued climbing toward the vacant pyramid-roofed homes—had British engineers lived here? I wondered. From atop Mount Umm Bujma, I glimpsed the sea.
The wooden rest house caught my attention like a vague dream. Without realizing it, I stepped inside. There I found a box made of beechwood. I opened it, and the moment it opened, the papers seemed to breathe. They burst out like a fountain—leather-bound diaries dated back to the year 1960, titled “Diaries of the City of Umm Bujma.”
I began reading under sunlight. I noticed the author’s initials—“A.A.” The “unknown narrator” opened his record with a haunting question:
How did events unfold so that the workers of this city ended up leaping—carrying a ewe—up the broken steps of “Mount of Manifestation”?
And he left the answer in the body of his tale...
Chapter One: Beautiful
1
“Why do you refuse to work in the Englishmen’s city?”
Nadim Al-Dessouqi asked his friend, the Sa‘idi (Upper Egyptian) Adham ‘Aref, as they walked together in the shade in Aswan, surprised and disapproving. Nadim’s short neck extended slightly from his coat. Adham looked at his friend and, while avoiding the white ants that had made their home in the cracks of the mud, lifted his foot hidden beneath his galabeya and said:
“A city atop the Sinai mountains—my asthma-stricken chest will feel suffocated there…”
“But don’t you feel suffocated by this harsh life?”
“I do… How do the ‘royal’ workers live up there?”
“There are houses, a hospital, a school, a bakery, a pharmacy—even a theater. They work from dawn till dusk, then enjoy the rest of the day.”
“These royal workers steal manganese for the eyes of the King of England.”
Adham tied the fround—a frame of interwoven cloth and ropes—preparing to harvest dates from the palm. As he neared the top, a few red dates fell. Nadim, with his aristocratic appearance, bent down and picked some of the ripe fruit from where it had dropped and said:
“The English are kinder than us. When one of us gains power, even if only as much as these dates, the devil himself comes to learn from him. Our last village chief lost his mind after gaining power—he thought himself divine.”
“The village has changed a lot these days.”
“Now ruled by many devils? Nothing will change as long as the worm lies in the tree’s root.”
“And what is the root of the tree?”
“You. Me. And these docile peasants who turn into embers of arrogance and malice the moment they gain even the slightest control over another’s fate. We are not good, in the name of our friendship, in the name of life… Otherwise, why would fate grant power over us to the worst of men?”
Adham fell silent under the weight of emotion. The silence encouraged Nadim to continue, as he dusted off his coat:
“I’ll get you a ticket to the concert of this new singer—they call her ‘Umm Kulthum’. She’ll perform on Sunday at the theater in that amazing city in Sinai. If you like the tenderness of her voice, then you’ll accept your new life there. Have you ever heard her spiritual singing?”
“I heard her once on the phonograph—singing a song of questionable taste,” (referring to the cheeky taqtuqa “Debauchery and Coquetry Are My Creed”), “since then, I’ve avoided hearing more…”
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