8. Buried Alive

From the beginning of Syrian emigration to America, its road became a current that swept away Syrians by the dozen, the hundred, and the thousand. In the early years, it had been limited to people seeking a livelihood, people whose country closed in upon them and who sought room for themselves in the New World. But the current began to seize great numbers of other people from Syria and pour them into that world.

Ḥabīb al-Zaytūnī had scarcely completed his advanced studies at the college in Beirut when he became drunk on the wine of emigration.[38] Through the eye of his learning he saw that his country was poor, offering neither object for hope nor room for ambition, while wealthy America opened a broader field in which he could ascend to the summit of his aspirations.

His father wept and his mother wailed whenever he spoke of going to the New World, but he would not abandon the idea. How many ways his father tried to distract him from it! At one moment he tempted him with marriage; at another he promised to transfer all his property and income into his son’s name. But Ḥabīb would not deviate by a hair from his resolve, and his mother’s entreaties went to the winds.

Thus Ḥabīb set out for America carrying his diploma and a sum of money. When he entered New York, acquaintances marveled. He dressed better than they and even wore an American Beauty rose on his breast.[39] He looked like a man who had spent many years in America, able to move from one street to another by virtue of the English he spoke as fluently as Arabic.

Within days he had made his acquaintances ashamed of themselves. Despite being veterans of America, they could answer none of his questions. When he asked, “Where is the Hippodrome?” faces displayed only bewilderment; they thought the word must mean some fantastic beast in the “zoological garden,” as they called it.[40] When he asked whether anyone knew the location of the public museum, one man said he knew no museum but Castle Garden, where people of every race assembled.[41]

For all these reasons, Ḥabīb al-Zaytūnī did not remain long among his Syrian brethren. They, for their part, had grown tired of his philosophizing and feared for his future in this country. His feet had scarcely touched American soil when he began asking about entertainments and spectacles instead of looking for work or a trade that would provide his daily bread and allow him to save a few dollars for the days ahead.

Ḥabīb left the Syrians and began studying American life. His pocket was still warm with the liras his father had given him. Before the first half-year ended, however, our friend had been “cleaned out.” He returned to his Syrian brethren to ask how he ought to work. They generously advised him, explaining that America needed strong arms, not learning or airs of greatness. Though he did not agree, approaching need forced him to accept their view.

His first step toward work was to accompany a young man from his village who was a peddler. The man carried satchels, went from door to door selling his goods, and by ordinary standards his business was doing well.

To Ḥabīb’s misfortune, the peddler did not “make a cent” that day, contrary to custom.[42] He took a bad omen from his companion and decided that the day’s failure resulted from Ḥabīb’s presence, especially his fine clothes and ornamental rose. For his part, Ḥabīb hated and despised the trade. He told himself that even if all the world’s wealth hung upon this occupation, he would not accept it. After thanking his friend, he said he could not join him.

The friend urged him to remain and protested that one unsuccessful day meant nothing; the future would certainly open its doors to them. Ḥabīb still refused. The peddler insisted only because he saw Ḥabīb drawing back. In truth, his departure lifted a heavy weight from the man’s chest. For courtesy’s sake he pressed him first, then said, “If that is what you want, have it your way.”

Ḥabīb was forced to leave New York for an inland city where a friend of his father lived. The man had learned of his arrival and wrote inviting him to work in his store. He wrote a second and third time. At first Ḥabīb was too proud to answer, but when need made itself felt, he apologized for the delay and said he would come at the end of the week.

I met the young man in that city while representing a kimono factory.[43] The local merchant was one of my customers. When I saw Ḥabīb in the store, I took a liking to him and invited him to dine with me at the hotel. We spent the whole evening together. He emptied his quiver of complaints about the times and their people, especially the merchant for whom he performed every task. In the store he was bookkeeper, manager, buyer, seller, sweeper, water-pipe stuffer, and carrier of vegetables to the house, among other duties.

I was saddened when he said that at month’s end, after receiving his wages, he would leave for Canada. Perhaps it held more success than the United States. He told me that his family at home had no need for him to suffer in America. Yet he had emigrated despite his parents’ insistence and tears; his pride would not let him return without the success he had promised himself. Success would come, but only with time.

Later I learned that our friend’s funds had given out. He made for Canada, where his affliction increased. The country was bitterly cold, and he was slight of build. He saw nothing to satisfy his ambitions, not even a first morsel of them.

A Syrian Canadian I met in New York told me that he knew Ḥabīb in a pitiable condition. The last he had heard, someone moved by compassion had given him a few dollars to return to the inland city where the merchant lived.

I said to myself: Glory be to God! Time presses upon the human soul, breaks its will, and establishes its own.

Five years passed without further news of him. Then distance cast me where it would and threw me into the merchant’s town. I entered the store and saw Ḥabīb. Illness had written a long book across his face, though he was well turned out and beautifully dressed. I greeted him. Before I could invite him to dinner, he insisted that I accompany him to a local restaurant.

At the appointed time we met. I asked after his condition and work and begged him to tell me the story of his life. He opened his mouth, sighed deeply, and began with these words:

“I am buried alive.”

“Strange! You complain, though you look better off than before. Are you in pain?”

“No. I complain of neither pain, hardship, nor anything of that kind. I complain of having lost something precious that was mine when you first knew me.”

“Forgive my speaking without ceremony, but when I knew you, I saw you possessed nothing precious. Need ruled over you.”

“I was needy, but my soul was alive. Today I am rich, and as you see, I obtained my wealth upon the tomb of my soul. I am buried alive.”

“You repeat this phrase—‘buried alive.’ What do you mean?”

“Know that I came to America with my academic diploma, but it gave me no help against time. After I spent all my father’s money, I was forced to work for others, against the will of a soul that refused. Before that, I tried to work as my countrymen do, whether peddling or earning wages, but found no capacity for it within myself.

“My reason told me to return to my father’s house, but my pride resisted out of shame before my parents. I had left them despite their insistence that I remain in their care. After completing my education, I had given them nothing to realize their hopes. I had imagined that America was the proper field for men like me, and my hopes failed.

“I struggled with my soul, but it conquered me. I took refuge in its pride while concealing a terrible revenge against it. I returned to this city and my old store. To escape domination and poverty, I humored the proprietor and married his daughter.

“I killed my soul.

“Today, as you see, I am master of a large store and a house with magnificent furnishings. I have a good wife, but never in my life have I looked upon her with love. Today I long to return to my former condition, when my soul was still among the living.”

Poor Ḥabīb al-Zaytūnī. He truly is buried alive.

NOTES

[38] “The college in Beirut” may evoke the Syrian Protestant College, founded in 1866 and renamed the American University of Beirut in 1920, but Haddad does not specify the institution.
[39] ‘American Beauty’ was a famous red rose cultivar and a fashionable boutonnière in the United States around 1900.
[40] The New York Hippodrome, opened in 1905 on Sixth Avenue, was a vast theater celebrated for spectacular productions. The recent arrival’s knowledge of the attraction contrasts with the long-settled immigrants’ restricted urban world.
[41] Castle Garden at the Battery served as New York’s immigrant processing station from 1855 to 1890 and reopened as the New York Aquarium in 1896. The speaker comically treats its gathering of ‘all races’ as a museum exhibit.
[42] The Arabic uses a code-switched verb, yisannis, apparently built from English ‘cent(s)’: he failed to take in even a cent.
[43] Kimonos and kimono-style garments were widely manufactured and marketed in the United States in the early twentieth century. Haddad Arabicizes the word as kīmūnā.
