Especially to HIM!

Moist, cold and dark is the place where I sleep every night.
Water enters from the cracks in the walls. Wind blows through the broken glass. And darkness reigns all over.

I sit in my corner, motionless – hoping to catch the early rays of light.
Images from last night’s incident surface. I try to drench them but my rib aches from the fall and I’m too weak to resist any mental pictures.

Before dawn breaks, I hear footsteps. Someone must be awake. Then, voices, arguments and sounds of beatings alternate.  I hear him scream and cry. Today’s violent strikes must be very severe. His body is used to the torment, yet it gets more and more agonizing each day.

I sit in my corner, helpless – wishing to break both of us free.
He sits on the floor, but doesn’t glance my way. He is too ashamed to look at me. He counts a handful of coins and some paper money. He closes his swollen eyelids.
Another day will soon begin.

Later on, he chews his plain and unfancy breakfast. And with the first signs of morning, he wraps his arm around me and takes me away.
And just like usual, he never lets me leave his side. We roam the streets together. I accompany him wherever he goes. I became a part of him, his existence. With him, I feel valuable.

We go from one neighborhood to another. He talks to clients and shows off what we got. Most people know him. Few smile at us, others frown at our sight. They call him by his name, or by terms they invent. They hand him money in exchange of goods - but sometimes for nothing at all.

Life is cruel; especially to him.
After a long day of disappointments, shame and disdain, an old black car with no plate number and tinted windows honks at us. He hops in. And the minute he closes the door, he receives a slap on his cheek. He removes his arm off me and cups his face.
A head turns to him, scowls, and asks him if he earned the daily amount required. My companion remains silent. It means he didn’t. The question is repeated. He shakes his head signaling a No.
Then, all I can hear is tires screeching against the asphalt. The man stops, pushes my partner out of the car and throws me away.

We both lie on the cold wet pavement – the place where we will spend the night. He hugs me, puts his face down and starts to weep.
Life is cruel; especially to him: an unschooled nine-year-old with an empty stomach, a coldblooded father and with absolutely nothing but ME.
Me? A plastic bowl that he picked from a rich family’s dumpster. A plastic bowl in which he puts gum packs and cheap sweets. A plastic bowl that he is forced to carry around night and day in order to please a ruthless parent.

Could this be more inhumane? Life in a city where minors are obliged to work, child abuse is everywhere and kids are deprived from their most basic rights.

Photo By Nour Kabbara.

By Nour Kabbara

By Nour Kabbara