My Father Was a Teacher
كان أبي معلمًا · 1976
Abdeltawab Youssef’s short biography of his father, Sheikh Youssef Ahmed Youssef, a schoolteacher in his village and in Beni Suef. It first ran as a serial in Al-Ra’id, a magazine for teachers, and came out as a book from Dar al-Maaref in 1976. This is the opening of the first chapter, “A Moment in Life”, in which a famous doctor at Kasr El-Aini hands his fee back to his old teacher. The English translation by Loubna Youssef, edited by Mohamed Enani, was published in 2014.
My father was a teacher.
I observed him during his journey through life, carrying chalk in the morning and a red pen in the evening. I often saw him rushing out at sunrise to get to his first class, and walking back at sunset, burdened by the copybooks he had to correct by the faint light of a lantern, swinging in the evening breeze. This is why the lenses of his glasses grew thicker day by day.
[…]
I often used to ask my father sarcastically:
“Do they pay you enough for this enormous effort?”
And he would gently smile and say:
“Don’t expect life to give you the exact equivalent for what you expend. Now, I am not a grocer or a pharmacist who can set a price for the items he displays. Yet, I am confident that my efforts will somehow be rewarded. I don’t know how it will come back to me, nor do I expect it. I believe that teaching is neither a clerical position, a profession, nor a job, but a lifelong mission.”
I would smile. I thought he was saying this as a way of convincing himself that he ought to be satisfied with so little, especially since he was destined to be a teacher.
[…]
My father spread out his palm that held the two pounds and said: “This sum is not two pounds, it is more than a million pounds. Indeed, the light that the chalk and the red pen dimmed has come back today. The strength I lost along with my voice while teaching in the classroom has returned to me. And it is you, my dear son, who did this. I feel that you have placed me on a pedestal, one higher than the pedestal of glory.”
كان أبى معلمًا..
رأيته يقطع رحلة العمر، يحمل (الطباشير) فى الصباح، والقلم الأحمر فى المساء.. وكم من مرة شاهدته يلهث مع مشرق الشمس ليلحق بالحصة الأولى، ويعود يلهث مع غروبها وهو يئن تحت ثقل الكراسات التى يحملها ليصححها على نور مصباح شاحب تتراقص ذبالته مع نسمات الليل.. ومن أجل ذلك راحت زجاجات نظاراته تزداد سمكًا مع الأيام والليالى..
[…]
وكثيرًا ما سألت أبى فى استنكار:
- هل يعطونك ما يقابل هذا الجهد الجهيد؟
وكان رحمه الله يبتسم ويقول فى هدوء:
- لا تتوقع من الحياة أن تعطيك مقابل ما تبذل.. ثم إننى لست بقالًا ولا عطارًا فيمكننى تقدير ثمن بضاعتى.. ولكننى على ثقة من أن لجهدى ثمنًا غير منظور لا أعرف كيف يمكن أن يؤدَّى لى، بل لا أنتظر أن يؤدَّى.. إنى أومن أن التعليم ليس وظيفة، ولا مهنة، ولا عملًا.. إنما هو «رسالة» و«حياة»..
وكنت أبتسم، فقد حسبت أنه يقول هذا إقناعًا لنفسه وترضية لها، ما دام قد كُتب عليه أن يصير معلمًا..
[…]
وعاد والدى يبسط كفه وفيه الورقة، والجنيهان.. وقال:
- هذا المبلغ ليس جنيهين إنما هو أكبر من مليونى جنيه.. إن النور الذى تسرب من عينى مع «الطباشير» والقلم الأحمر، قد عاد اليوم.. إن عافيتى التى انسابت مع صوتى فى حجرات الدرس قد رُدَّت إلىَّ.. وأنت يا عزيزى الطبيب الذى فعلت ذلك.. لقد أحسست أنك وضعتنى فوق قمة عالية، أعلى من قمة المجد..