Chapter Text
As I stirred from what felt like a deep nap, the grogginess clung to me like a weighed blanket. My mind wavered between realms of consciousness, struggling to break free from the tendrils of slumber. The sensation of awakening felt familiar, yet different, as if my rest had been interrupted by external disturbances.
I blinked my eyes open, squinting against the dim light that filtered through the cracks of my eyelids. The world around me seemed hazy, as if viewed through a foggy lens. I could sense the heaviness in my limbs, a residual weariness that tugged at my senses. It was as if I had been transported to a different state of being during my deep sleep, a realm where time and space intertwined - but then I always felt especially groggy after a late night studying.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, the sensation of movement accompanied by a subtle disorientation. My surroundings appeared unfamiliar, like a dream that lingers upon waking. I struggled to make sense of the fragments of memory that floated through my consciousness, elusive and just beyond my grasp and a feeling of unease I cannot place settled in my stomach.
It was as though I had been roused from a profound slumber, my mind struggling to shake off the remnants of sleep.
Outside, the world seemed alive with sounds and whispers, as if beckoning me to venture forth. But my limbs are weighed down heavily upon by my tiredness and both my mind and body struggle to adapt. I cling to the threads of consciousness that wove through my mind with a viciousness — unable to shake the feeling of urgency I feel when my deep sleep beacons me again.
I have the strange feeling that if I fall asleep again, I won’t wake up.
The outside disturbances continued to disturb my fragile equilibrium but it allows me to press forward, driven by an inner strength that surpassed the weariness that clung to me and shone like beacon, guiding me through the foggy haze of my awakening.
As the fleeting shadows of dreams dissipates I notice two very distinct things - things that should not so have easily escaped my noticed.
The room I am in is not my own. In fact, the room could not have been more of a stark contrast to the comfort and familiarity of my own bedroom. it is no more a broom closet then a room, the walls made of rough, sun-baked clay. The air was thick with an earthy scent that tickled my nostrils and is so sufficiently small and presses so tightly against me and I know that if I extend my arms my either way my elbows will skim their dusty surface. Only, as I try to extend my arms to get a better sense of the room's dimensions I find I have massively miscalculated and my fingers brush the wall’s surface. Only the hands I see before me are not my own — those are the chubby and stubby fingers of a child.
Fear clawed at my chest, gripping my heart in a vice-like hold. Confusion etched deep lines in my brow as I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. This wasn't right. This couldn't be happening. I tried to fling myself up at the light shinning through a hole in the wall but my body feels foreign, like a vessel I have been thrust into without warning.it doesn’t follow my commands and instead of lifting from the ground I stumble to it roundly, my head knocking against the sandy floor. It’s the pain of it that confirms my deep fear.
This wasn't a dream. It was a reality I couldn't comprehend.
Questions raced through my mind, demanding answers. How had I come to be in this body? Where was my previous life? And then, as if in response to my silent inquiry, fragments of memories began to resurface.
A bridge. I remembered standing on a bridge, surrounded by people and chaos. A voice, calling out to me, filled with urgency and fear. And then, the sensation of falling, a rush of wind against my face. After that, nothing.
With trembling hands, I reached up and touched my chest, hoping to find some clue, some connection to my former self. But all I felt was the fluttering of a small heart, beating with the innocence and vulnerability of a child.
As I turn towards my only source of light, the sound of distant machinery caught my attention. It mingled with the voices of people, shouting and laboring. Curiosity beckoned me forward, and I made my way to the window, lifting into my tiptoes to peek into the world outside.
And there it was—a scene of grandeur unfolding before my eyes. The stretch of a long body of water lay not far from where I stood, its expanse so vast I couldn’t see past it. Workers, men and women, toiled in the sweltering heat, their bodies moving with purpose and determination. A stark, painful contrast between my previous college life and the unimaginable circumstances I found myself in.
The worries of sleep deprivation, academic stress, and financial struggles that once consumed my thoughts seemed insignificant in comparison to the harsh reality of my new existence.
No longer was my anxiety centered around presenting a thesis or impressing a formidable professor; instead, my very survival became the utmost concern. The weight of my predicament threatened to overwhelm me, and the thought of navigating this unfamiliar world was a burden beyond anything I had ever imagined.
Gone were the days of late-night study sessions fueled by coffee and takeout.
My dreams of academic success, while once consuming, now seemed distant and irrelevant in the face of the harsh reality that enveloped me. The idea of being trapped in this world, stripped of autonomy and dignity as an adult pushed me to the brink of my emotional and mental limits.
This was a level of struggle that surpassed anything I could have anticipated. The walls that confined me were not those of a lecture hall or a dorm room, but the suffocating existence of an entirely new life with no memory of how it came to be.
While the challenges of college life had prepared me to overcome obstacles, they paled in comparison to the endurance and resilience demanded by my current reality.
My hands begin to shake and my knees weaken as I curl myself into a ball. Blind animalistic panic bleeds into my sight and the corners of my vision ebb and flow with a blackness I turn with my shallow breaths. I feel myself get dragged in the same oppressive feeling of grogginess that I first awoke to and force myself to calm down.
I knew I had to regain control, to find solace in the familiarity of my senses. I forced myself to take slow, deliberate breaths, desperately seeking the calmness that lay buried beneath the surface.
Recounting the steps I had practiced since childhood became my lifeline. I reminded myself to focus on my senses, to ground myself in the present moment.
Sight.
I tried to focus on what I could see. Not what was outside the window - but what was in front of me. The floor — dusty, concrete, the shape not totally square and uneven on the left and right side.
My hands — small, tan, worn with callouses that only made my mind spin.
Next sense then.
Smell.
Drawing a deep breath, I filled my nostrils with the scent of the surroundings. The air was heavy with the musky with a mixture of earth, sweat, and the faint aroma of distant sea salt. The smell was unfamiliar, far from the familiar aroma of coffee and the sterile environment of my college library.
As I closed my eyes momentarily, shutting out the harsh reality, I allowed my other senses to take precedence.
Touch.
My fingertips brushed against the rough surface of the walls that enclosed me. The texture was coarse, the sensation foreign to my accustomed touch. The dust settled on my skin, reminding me of the expanse of desert just outside the window.
Taste.
I licked my lips instinctively, seeking any hint of familiarity. But there was none. The taste of anxiety and adrenaline lingered on my tongue, mingling with a hint of the unknown. The absence of the comforting flavors that once accompanied my coffee and takeout meals left a void, further emphasizing the stark contrast between my past and present.
And finally, sound.
I strained my ears, listening intently to the symphony of labor that surrounded me. The distant rumble of machinery echoed through the air, intermingled with the rhythmic sound of shovels digging into the earth and the shuffle of weary feet. Voices, filled with exhaustion and resignation, blended into an indistinguishable chorus of hardship.
With each sense explored, I became acutely aware that I was no longer the stressed college student navigating the challenges of academia. I was thrown into a situation that had no variables - I am the embodiment of a fleeting singularity, a moment in history that defied replication. My mind waxes and wanes with my panic, not willing to truly calm down and insisting on pumping the little body I am in with conspicuous amounts of adrenaline that is struggles to hold as the shaking of my limps doesn’t cease. Adrenaline is the bodies biological instinct to survive. Sitting in this room wasn’t going to help. My focus had to be gathering information and survival.
My brain was trying to rationalise my situation when i had exhausted my resources. I know I won’t find out anything by staying stagnant. I have to move. This room has yielded all that it can to me and now it’s up to me to drag out the rest of the clues. It was hard to depend on logic when it was being defied in every way imaginable.
As I ventured outside, the cacophony of voices filled the air. The unfamiliar language reverberated around me, foreign syllables mingling with the rising tension. Arabic , I realise. The language of my grandmother. Their words, sharp and commanding, pierce through the atmosphere, carrying with them a sense of urgency and purpose.
I don’t understand what they do much as how they say them. Though I struggled to comprehend the exact meaning of the words spoken there was a familiarity in the cadence and intonation with which they were delivered. I listened intently to the inflections, the rises and falls, the pauses between words. Through these subtle nuances, I gleaned glimpses of intent and emotion. The rhythm of their speech, the emphasis on certain syllables, painted a faint picture of the sentiments being expressed.
The Arabic language, while still a barrier, had always been an expressive one.
My grandmother, a master of this art, possessed a unique ability to convey her thoughts and emotions through her hands and her expressive face, in perfect harmony with her spoken words.
So though I couldn’t grasp their verbal language I looked at the subtitles of their expression, their tone — the way they moved their hands. I could always tell when my grandmother spoke about me just from the at she would clasp her hand to her breast and her eyes would soften. These men too would yield there secrets to me
The subtleties of hand gestures, the way they intertwined with spoken language, fascinated me. Each flick of the wrist, each extension of the fingers, carried a significance that surpassed the boundaries of linguistic barriers. They were a language of their own, speaking volumes about emotions, intentions, and unspoken truths. It was as if the language extended beyond mere words, embracing a realm of physical expression
The melodic quality of Arabic stirred memories of my childhood, of evenings spent with my grandmother as she recounted tales of our ancestral homeland. She wove words together like a master storyteller, her voice rising and falling with each sentence, carrying emotions and nuances that transcended mere translation.
While the meaning of the Arabic words eluded me, I grasped the essence of their delivery and every minor noun, adverb and adjective that I recognise became a lifeline I clung onto with certain phrases standing out amidst the jumble of sounds.
“أشرف والدي على بناء قناة السويس كما تعلمون.”
The words "Suez Canal" reverberated in my ears, a profound realization washed over me. The mention of this iconic engineering marvel, a feat of human ingenuity, provided a crucial clue about my location—I was in Egypt. The Suez Canal, connecting the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea, was a defining landmark of this country.
Though I couldn't comprehend the intricate details of the conversations surrounding me, the mere mention of the Suez Canal transported me from the realm of uncertainty to a place of relative clarity. It was a beacon of recognition amidst the confusion, offering a lifeline of understanding in a sea of unfamiliarity.
With this newfound knowledge, I could anchor myself to a specific time and place. Egypt—the land of pharaohs, ancient wonders, and rich history—now held me captive, entangled within the complexities of its past and present.
The Suez Canal became more than just a physical waterway; it became a metaphorical gateway to my understanding. It represented the divide between the life I once knew and the harsh reality I now faced.
While the realization of being in Egypt brought a certain level of clarity, it also underscored the magnitude of the situation I found myself in. I clung to those words, aware that they held the key to my current predicament. They were the link that connected me to this place, to the laborers toiling under the scorching sun and — as my eyes darted around, I caught sight of the whip at the side of one of the men — to the men who wielded their whips with an air of authority.
The whip's significance struck a dissonant chord within me. I recalled stories my grandmother had shared about her home country, where she had never mentioned such brutal implements being used. While I understood that corporal punishments in some regions could be severe and barbaric, the sight of the whip in this context felt particularly jarring. It served as a stark contrast to my previous understanding, leaving me to grapple with the realization that the world I now found myself in seemed trapped in a different era, one marked by archaic practices and oppressive systems.
The stark disparities in the living conditions further accentuated this stark contrast. The walls surrounding me were crudely constructed, lacking the finesse and precision of modern architecture. The clothes adorning my body were mere remnants, scraps barely sufficient to cover my form, while the attire worn by the two men exuded a sense of tailored refinement, albeit outdated by contemporary standards.
These observations deepened my sense of displacement and amplified the urgency of my situation. I was not only in an unfamiliar body and place, but also thrust into a bygone era where oppression and hardship seemed woven into the fabric of daily life.
In the grip of my concentration, the world around me faded into a blur, leaving only the two men before me who held my undivided attention. Lost in their conversation, I failed to perceive the approach of another figure until his large hand firmly grasped my arm. Startled, a surge of urgency coursed through me, as if I were a cornered animal ready to defend myself.
But as I turned my gaze towards him, I was met with a sight that defied my expectations. Despite the initial alarm, the man's demeanor exuded an aura of gentle reassurance. His voice, when he spoke, resonated with soothing tones that melted the tension within me. It was clear that he meant me no harm. In fact, a glimmer of recognition flickered in his eyes, as if he knew and cared for the little girl whose body I now inhabited.
In that moment, a flicker of hope ignited within me. Perhaps, in this vast and bewildering world, I had encountered someone who could offer guidance, support, and maybe even answers to the questions that plagued my mind. His presence, though initially unexpected, now held the potential to be a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.
With a deep breath, I mustered the courage to reciprocate the man's gentle touch. The fear that had gripped me moments ago began to ebb away, replaced by a cautious curiosity and a glimmer of trust. It was a small step, but one that opened the door to the possibility of finding my place in this unfamiliar reality.
The man spoke in urgent hushed Arabic words that I couldn’t keep up with, leaving me to rely on the subtle nuances of his expression and the intensity of his touch. As his hands grasped my face, a mixture of concern and alarm reflected in his eyes. It was as if he sought to assess any injuries I might have incurred, his gaze shifting quickly towards the two men standing nearby.
In that fleeting moment, I glimpsed the hardened resolve etched in his gaze. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a recognition of the oppressive power dynamics at play. The way his grip tightened around me, pulling me into his arms and swiftly turning away, revealed a sense of urgency and an instinct to shield me from potential harm.
In the brief contact between our bodies, I felt the roughness of his shirt against my sunburnt skin. The contrast between his well-worn garment and the more refined attire of those above us further emphasized the disparity in power and privilege. It served as a tangible reminder of our place in the pecking order, positioned at the bottom rung of a system defined by inequality and hierarchy.
Though I may have lacked complete comprehension of the man's words and the intricacies of the situation, I grasped the gravity of our predicament. We were entangled in a web of control and subjugation, where our very existence hinged upon the whims and decisions of those who held power. Those that held the whip.
As I found myself enveloped in the arms of the man, a fleeting unease crept over me. Despite the familiarity my new body seemed to have with him, I couldn't ignore the fact that, to my own consciousness, he was still a stranger. A sense of vulnerability washed over me, amplified by the realization that I possessed no means to defend myself in this foreign and potentially dangerous environment.
Stepping out into the searing heat of the sun, I couldn't help but stiffen, my body instinctively reacting to the harshness of the surroundings. Sensing my unease, the man, ever attentive to my needs, flashed a quick smile in my direction. The gentleness of his smile and the softness in his eyes reassured me, as if he understood the fear that gripped me in that moment. His gaze lingered on me, his eyes darting down to my form before swiftly scanning our surroundings with a guarded demeanor.
In that instant, his entire demeanor transformed, projecting an air of protection and defensiveness. It was as if he had morphed into a lion, fiercely guarding his vulnerable cub. The message he conveyed to those around us was unmistakable: "Back the fuck off." The image flashed before my eyes, a powerful visual representation of his unwavering resolve to shield me from harm.
In that moment, I felt a glimmer of safety amidst the uncertainty. The man's presence provided a shield against the harsh realities of this world, instilling within me a newfound sense of trust. With him by my side, I would have a form of safety as I navigated my way back home.
“من الجيد رؤيتك بأمان. “ he says, his hand gently stroking my shaven head—a detail that I acknowledge but ignore for now. His smile radiates warmth and relief. “عندما أخذك المشرفون الليلة الماضية كنت أخشى الأسوأ.”
Lost in a state of bewilderment, I continue to stare at him, my confusion apparent. However, instead of growing impatient, his broad smile widens, his dark skin accentuating the subtle bruises around his eye and the cut on his lip. Noticing my gaze fixated on his injuries, he can't help but revel in the moment, his grin expanding with a mixture of pride and amusement.
"من الجيد أن نرى أن المعركة التي خضتها لم تذهب سدى" he says, his tone carrying a playful sense of accomplishment. His words convey a lightheartedness, as if he's teasing me about a humorous mishap. He revels in the absurdity of the situation, finding joy in the shared experience of overcoming adversity.
“ حبيبي .” He coos, a word I instantly recognize. My father calls me that. I gaze at him intently, searching for answers in the depths of his eyes. Could this man be the father of the little girl whose body I now inhabit? Though I cannot see my own face, I study his features with great scrutiny. His broad and bumpy nose, as if it has been broken and healed multiple times, catches my attention. His wide brow and even wider mouth are distinctive traits. Cradled in his arms my feet dangle way over 6 feet from the ground.
With my hands, I explore my own face, hoping to find some resemblance between our features. As his chest rumbles with a deep laugh, he asks in Arabic, "ماذا تفعل؟"
In my broken Arabic, I respond, "أريد أن أرى."
His brows furrow momentarily, a flicker of concern crossing his face at my lack of fluency. Nevertheless, he walks a few steps, guiding us closer to a polished, gleaming sheet of metal that appears to be part of a boat. In its reflective surface, I catch a glimpse of myself. The image that stares back at me confirms what I already knew, but the reality of it strikes me anew. The reflection portrays the appearance of an Arabic child, a stark contrast to the person I once was.
The face is framed by smooth, youthful skin, tinged with a sun-kissed complexion. The eyes, wide and curious, reflect a sense of wonder and innocence, although they also bear the weight of confusion and uncertainty. Dark, expressive eyebrows curve gently above the eyes, while long lashes cast delicate shadows on the cheeks. The nose, still developing, has a softness to it, lacking the defined contours of adulthood. The lips, full and plump, carry a natural rosy hue, indicative of youthfulness.
It appears that the child's appearance reflects a strong Egyptian heritage. While my previous body may have had a lesser connection to Egyptian ancestry, this new body seems to exhibit more pronounced physical traits associated with the Egyptian ethnicity.
As I peer into the reflection, my widened eyes fixate on a scene that unfolds behind me. It is the Suez Canal, a testament to human engineering and labor, but also a place of immense toil and struggle.
The canal stretches before me, a man-made waterway cutting through the arid landscape. Its width spans as far as the eye can see, a strip of shimmering blue that contrasts with the golden hues of the surrounding desert. The canal's banks are lined with dusty earth, uneven and marked by the relentless footsteps of countless workers. The canal, while still a remarkable feat of engineering, lacks the modern features and advancements that I am familiar with. Instead of the sleek ships and vessels of the present era, I see a collection of older, more rugged boats navigating the canal. They appear weathered and worn, their boats pumping thar air with a thick black cloud of steam as they transport goods and materials along the water route.
To my left and right, I see groups of laborers toiling under the scorching sun. Their bodies, clothed in worn and tattered garments, glisten with sweat as they engage in backbreaking work. The air hangs heavy with the combined scent of dust, perspiration, and the occasional whiff of the nearby sea. The atmosphere crackles with the sounds of pickaxes striking the ground, the rhythmic clinks and clanks of metal against rock.
The workers move with a sense of purpose, their movements synchronized in an orchestrated symphony of labor. Some dig into the earth, their muscles straining as they excavate the soil. Others carry heavy baskets or push wheelbarrows filled with debris and construction materials. The constant movement and bustle create a relentless energy, a ceaseless striving to shape the canal through sheer human effort.
The overseers, positioned at various points along the canal, watch over the laborers with stern gazes. They wield their authority with whips in hand, cracking them in the air as a reminder of their power. The crack of the whip echoes through the air, mingling with the sounds of labor, serving as a harsh reminder of the control and coercion imposed upon these workers.
In the distance, I glimpse the outline of primitive construction equipment, a testament to the evolving technology of the time. Steam-powered machinery emits plumes of smoke, chugging along as they assist in the construction process. Yet, despite the presence of these machines, it is the force of human hands that dominates the scene, their tireless efforts carving a path through the unforgiving terrain.
As I take in the sights and sounds of the Suez Canal construction, I am struck by the stark contrast between the grandeur of the endeavor and the harsh reality of forced labor. It is a scene where human potential and suffering intertwine, where the ambition to reshape the world meets the cost borne by those who are subjected to labor against their will.
And I have a feeling I am one of them.