Blood Relation

Blood Relation

BY

Ahmed Attia Al Imam






Traveling in the twenties of one’s age would hardly enable anyone positively to enjoy sitting in a bus for more than twenty four hours. Reading was only a partial solution, let alone the monotonous rhythm of my being at stack in such long distance from Istanbul to Athens without a friend. The bus was full of passengers from different directions, races, moods. There were many Europeans, three Canadians, a Japanese, a Syrian, a Nigerian and I, the only Libyan. All witnessed that panorama there as it began when an elderly Greek woman asked and then begged one of the Canadians to exchange seats with her in order to join the beautiful young daughter who unschedully sat by my side. The daughter seat number did not allow her to sit by her mom. The man refused angrily as impolitely ordered the old mother to get lost. “Ain’tgonadou any favor…simply, it’s mine not hers or yours.” the Canadian mumbled. Only then, I decided to show good intentions by teaching how one had to conduct in such situation. In fact I thought I had no other option. My reactions were unconsciously shown. I felt the absolute pride the minute they were gathered to each other. A few minutes later, the Canadian’s guise revealed what I actually did to him. The journey became longer, and suffers felt in the deepness, but I repeated, “Even the longest journey should have an end.”


Passing the Turkish border, I became very happy, as I thought that the journey would soon end, but not for long. I said to myself “this is my second visit to Greece when in the first I became familiar to very few norms of the Greeks that I met. The journey was so boring that there was nothing to prevent a passenger from being engaged in compulsory reading or sleeping. Unlike the case in the Turkish border, we were told to step out the bus and to be prepared for luggage check. In unlimited harshness in the tone of voice, the Greek officer ordered all passengers to align themselves nearby adding, “Would you mind unlocking your suitcases” As being responsive, I felt a hand on my shoulder; looked back, seen that it was the assumed Greek intellectual as tried to expose himself to all for the time being. He also pretended to excuse me ‘to take care of his bags’, admitting that he could not stand the time before going to the toilet. In turn, I expressed impatience explicitly to his request. I answered, “No, these are yours not mine.” The customs officer asked me to open mine. “Not at all,” I answered. My belongings, which had been packed so carefully that soon became a mess, were pounced upon with a mixed look of delight and suspicion. “I would never be able to close it again,” I whispered. It was really a tiresome incident to go through a customs like that one. As I expected, the officer again asked while looking in the eye. “Do these bags belong to you? He meant some four bags that I realized to belong to the Greek. “No,” I answered confidently when for a moment the owner vanished. All of a sudden, the officers ran in every direction. He stood and asked me the same question which I remembered and still … (he subjected my astonishment by pointing his finger to the aligned bags behind mine on the bench). In clear simple language I spoke up angrily this time: “To the consciousness of my memory, they are the Greek’s not mine.” It took the police nearly a few minute time to capture the Greek, smuggler, when only I knew that my leg was about to be pulled. Without thinking, I ran only towards the Nigerian, the Syrian, then to the Japanese whom I hugged unconsciously so as to express how I survived that plot happily. They were told the whole story from A to Z which they found interesting since they were the closest.


What invariably happened could go wrong as a day might begin well enough, but darkened uncontrollably. There ought to find times when we would willingly offer help to others, but not always since how many of us would honestly be able to carry on saying ‘well’.