Men in the Sun by Ghassan Kanafani

It was not too uncomfortable riding on the back of the huge lorry. Although the sun was pouring its inferno down on them without any respite, the breeze that they felt because of the lorry's speed lessened the intensity of the heat. Abu Qais had climbed up on top with Marwan, and they sat side by side on the edge of the tank. They had drawn lots, and it was Assad's turn to sit beside the driver for the first part of the journey.

Assad said to himself: "The old man will be last to sit in the shade here. But it doesn't matter; in any case the sun is still bearable now. At midday the old man will be lucky."

Abul Khaizuran spoke suddenly, raising his voice so that Assad could hear over the roar of the motor:

"Just imagine! In my own mind I compare these hundred and fifty kilometers to the path that God in the Quran promised his creatures they must cross before being directed either to Paradise or to Hell. If anyone falls he goes to Hell, and if anyone crosses safely he reaches Paradise. Here the angels are the frontier guards. "

Abul Khaizuran burst out laughing as though he were not the person who had made the remark, then he began to hit the steering wheel with both hands and shake his head. "You know, I'm afraid the goods will perish, up there. ."

He indicated by a movement of his neck where the old man was sitting with Marwan on the tank, and laughed violently.

Assad asked quietly:

"Tell me, Abul Khaizuran. Have you ever been married? "

"Me? " he asked in surprise, and his thin face became veiled in sadness as though he hadn't been laughing a moment before. Then he replied slowly: "Why do you ask?"

"For no particular reason. I was thinking that you have a splendid life. No one to drag you in any direction. You can fly off alone wherever you like. you can fly off alone."

Abul Khaizuran shook his head, then he narrowed his eyes to meet the sunlight that had suddenly struck the windscreen. The light was shining so brightly that at first he could see nothing. But he felt a terrible pain coiled between his thighs. After a few moments he could make out that his legs were tied to two supports that kept them suspended, and that there were several men surrounding him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them as wide as he could. The circular light above his head hid the ceiling from him and blinded him. As he lay there, tied firmly in that strange fashion, he could only remember one thing that had happened to him a moment before, and nothing else. He and a number of armed men were running along when all hell exploded in front of him and he fell forward on his face. That was all.

And now, the terrible pain was still plunging between his thighs and the huge round light was hanging over his eyes and he was trying to see things and people, narrowing his eyes as much as he could. Suddenly a black thought occurred to him and he began to scream like a madman. He couldn't remember what he said then, but he felt a hand covered with a slippery glove placed over his mouth with a violent movement. The voice reached him as though it were coming through cotton:

"Be sensible. Be sensible. At least it's better than dying. "

He didn't know if they could hear him as he shouted through his teeth, while the slippery hand covered his mouth. Or was his voice lost in his throat? At any rate, he could still hear the same voice as though someone else was shouting in his ear:

"No. It's better to be dead. "

Now. ten years had passed since that horrible scene. Ten years had passed since they took his manhood from him, and he had lived that humiliation day after day and hour after hour. He had swallowed it with his pride, and examined it every moment of those ten years. And still he hadn't yet got used to it, he hadn't accepted it. For ten long years he had been trying to accept the situation? But what situation? To confess quite simply that he had lost his manhood while fighting for his country? And what good had it done? He had lost his manhood and his country, and damn everything in this bloody world.

No, he couldn't consent, even after ten years, to forget his tragedy and get used to it. He couldn't even accept it when he was under the knife and they were trying to convince him that it was better to lose one's manhood than one's life. O God of devils! They don't even know that, they don't know anything, and then take it on themselves to teach people everything. Hadn't he accepted it, or was he incapable of accepting? From the first few moments he had decided not to accept; yes, that was it. Moreover, he couldn't entirely picture what had happened, and so he had fled from the hospital instinctively and blindly, before he had completely recovered. It was as though his flight could bring things back to normal again. He had needed a long time merely to accustom himself just to being alive, but had he succeeded? No, not yet. Each time he was asked, casually, "Why haven't you got married?"

the same feeling of pain plunging between his thighs came back to him, as though he were still lying under the bright round light with his legs suspended in the air.

The light blazed so piercingly that his eyes began to water. Assad stretched out his hand at that moment and brought down the long sun shield to shade Abul Khaizuran's face.

"Yes, that's better. Thanks. Do you know, Abu Qais is a lucky man."