Write it as a Palm Tree
Short story by : Abdel Latif Moubarak
Egyptian writer
The sun was dipping toward the horizon, pouring its liquid gold over the leaves of the trees, when young Mustafa sat on the edge of the irrigation canal, turning a piece of clay between his small hands. His heart was heavy, burdened with the disappointment of a child not yet accustomed to the harshness of days. At school, his classmates had mocked him for his patched robe, and his spirit had snapped like a dry stalk of wheat crushed underfoot.
At that moment, Teacher Abdel Hamid passed by. He was not just an Arabic language teacher in the village school; he was a wise elder who read the faces of men as one reads the pages of a book. The teacher stopped in his dignified Sa’idi galabeya. His eyes gleamed with the kindness of years, and he looked down at the boy and his broken spirit.
Teacher Abdel Hamid sat on the dirt beside Mustafa, paying no heed to the dignity of his clothes. He placed a tender hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke in a voice that resembled the rustling of water in the waterwheels:
— “What ails you, my son? I see you bowing your head to the ground, but the earth does not love those who look at it with humiliated eyes. The earth wants those who tread upon it with a firm step and an eye that pierces the sky.”
Mustafa wept, and began to tell his teacher of his meager circumstances, of his classmates’ words driven into his chest like thorns, and of how small and weak he felt before everyone else.
Teacher Abdel Hamid pulled a reed pen and an old notebook from his pocket, which he always carried to jot down his thoughts. He opened it to a pristine, white page, handed the pen to Mustafa, and said to him:
— “Take it, Mustafa, and write a single word in the center of this page that expresses your wish in life… How do you want people to see you?”
The boy hesitated, then gripped the pen with bitterness and wrote with a trembling hand: “I want to be a bird so I can fly far away from this misery.”
The teacher looked at the word, smiled a smile heavy with noble melancholy, and shook his head in denial.
The teacher gently erased the word and said:
— “A bird, Mustafa, flies, yes. But it flees at the first harsh wind, seeks shelter if the rain turns heavy, and dies if it leaves its sky. Do not be a bird that is easy to hunt or drive away… Erase it, my son… and write it as a palm tree.”
The boy looked at his teacher in astonishment, not understanding what a palm tree could mean to a lad who longed for wings to escape. Yet he obeyed his teacher, took the pen, and wrote in firm, black ink: “A palm tree”.
Teacher Abdel Hamid pointed with his hand toward an old palm tree piercing the sky at the edge of the field—a towering palm that had never bowed despite the passage of years.
He spoke in a language dripping with poetry and sweetness:
— “Look at it, Mustafa… The palm tree knows no bowing. Children throw stones at it, yet it does not respond in kind; instead, it drops fresh, sweet, and ripe dates upon them. Its roots beneath the earth dig into the depths of the rock in search of a drop of water, and its crown above the clouds never bends before the storm.”
The teacher continued his lesson, and the boy listened with every fiber of his being, as if his master’s words were a warm, rural anthem:
— “The wind, my son, comes to break the weak trees. But the palm tree sways with the wind in pride, its fronds dancing in the storm as if defying death itself. And when the tempest ends, the palm returns even straighter and more vigorous than before. Be like the palm tree: your life will be lengthened through your honorable memory, the thorns around you will die, you will remain proud, and your fruit will be sweet.”
That night, Mustafa returned to his humble home, and the hurtful words no longer stung. His old notebook lay open to a single page where he had written, in his own hand: “A palm tree.”
The young boy understood that a patched robe does not diminish a man, so long as the soul is dignified and the spirit is noble. He recalled the words of Teacher Abdel Hamid: “Pride is not bought with money; it is built with dignity, knowledge, and rising above petty grievances.”
The days ran their course, and many years went by. Teacher Abdel Hamid passed away, and the earth of the village he so loved welcomed him into its embrace. Mustafa grew up, left the village, and studied at the university. In his life, he faced storms far harsher than those of the countryside; he encountered the injustice of men, their plots, and the pressures of modern life that attempt to break a man’s will to turn him into a submissive servant.
Yet every time he felt weak or felt the urge to surrender, he would open the vault of his memories, glimpse the dark face of his teacher, and hear his warm voice saying: “Write it as a palm tree.”
Mustafa became a writer and a teacher esteemed by all. He never bowed before a title, nor did he sell his pen for worldly gains. He defended the truth with firmness and repaid grievance with benevolence, exactly like the palm tree that drops dates upon those who cast stones at it.
One day, as he sat in his elegant study in the capital, a young student came to him, weeping and complaining of the harshness of circumstances and the injustice of those around him. In the pupil’s eyes, Mustafa saw the very same broken spirit he had once carried on the edge of the canal.
Mustafa, the pupil of yesterday, smiled. He reached into his drawer, pulled out a pen and a notebook, opened it to a blank page, handed it to the weeping student, and said in a tone steeped in the spirit of Teacher Abdel Hamid and the scent of authentic Egypt:
— “Take it, my son… write on this page how you want life to shape you… and beware of seeking to collapse or flee… erase all words of weakness… and write it as a palm tree… and live all your life in pride.”
The student looked at the word, while the soul of Teacher Abdel Hamid smiled in the sky of the distant village, seeing that the seed had blossomed into a new palm tree that would never bend
