Live Encounters Arab Women Poets & Writers June 2026
Messages of the Dead, short story by Hanaa Metwally.
Translated from Arabic by Dr. Salwa Gouda.
Knock… knock… knock
The wind rustling through the trees, the unrelenting rain, and a power outage.
Despite her clear signs of aging—her short stature and shrunken frame—the woman dashes toward the intended house, raps five steady knocks on the door. As always, the door opens before her with a mix of anticipation and unease. She speaks two fixed words: “Your message has arrived.”
A shy sunrise after a rainy night. Sanaa hurries in her woolen cloak and long cotton shawl, approaching the lone house overlooking the canal. Though built of mud bricks and sheltered by a thatched roof, it radiates warmth against the passage of time. She calls out expectantly: “Auntie!” The short, shrunken woman peers out with watchful eyes and repeats her usual phrase: “No messages for you!”
Sanaa scurries back, tightening the shawl around her broad shoulders and bending her tall frame. The cold attacks her fiercely, drying her heart out further.
She returns home, curls up in bed, careful not to touch her husband’s sleeping body, lest her cold wake him and uncover her secret.
Auntie holds court at the market, standing atop large stones, murmuring words and verses whose charm leaves people in awe. No one has ever known her to attend a Qur’anic school or any formal school, so where does she get such eloquent words?
On the night of her sister’s henna ceremony, Sanaa wore a violet velvet dress and a light pink headscarf. She kneaded the henna, watching the dancing and clapping with absent eyes. She was suddenly ambushed by a dense wave of grief that seized her soul and clenched her heart cruelly. She fled, locked herself in the grain storage room, and drowned in endless tears.
Her father forced her to eat a small piece of the bride’s cake; the moment she swallowed it, she vomited.
Her husband tried to playfully coax her, a futile attempt. She brushed him off with indifference at first, but he kept trying. She snapped at him. He didn’t stop. She screamed at him… and wept.
“How did you recover so quickly?”
Night raises its walls, hammered down around the village each evening. Her steps stumble in the dark; her tall frame thwarts her lightness. She reaches Auntie’s house and returns—as always—with a pale, exhausted face like mud bricks. Her husband, who she was shocked to find behind her, drags her by the arm like a sheep led to slaughter.
Auntie gathers with the village women at the livestock merchant’s house. His plump wife sits at the center of the gathering; coffee cups never stop moving between their fingers. Auntie reads their fortunes, hidden in the twists of their lines—giving good news to one, a warning to another. Sanaa is among them, trapped by stares that kill her with waiting.
Auntie pulls her aside:
-My dear, there’s nothing I can do…
-Your knowledge is enough.
-Perhaps there’s something blocking the messages from him.
She abandons the matrimonial bed and sleeps in the other room. For the first time in ages, she dozes off. She has a nightmare: thorns cover her body, and fire bursts from her chest.
In the morning, she dresses in white. She visits her only son’s grave. She spreads the dust before him, plays with him, bringing his old toys and the grapes he used to love. She sings to him, tells stories… and smiles!
Night pushes her home. She prepares food for her husband but doesn’t eat with him—retreating into solitude in the small room. She feels him spying on her but no longer cares.
She carries on like this for an entire month until her husband’s patience runs dry.
-Let’s forget our grief and have another child.
-You always wished for his death…
-I wished for peace—for him and for us.
She turns her face away and returns to her long silence.
She grows used to locking the room with a key and crying stone-heavy tears. Bitter memories return. Her husband often tried to convince her that their child’s physical and mental disability was a fate no worldly wealth could change, and that his death was inevitable. But she only curled tighter into her sobbing. During his final illness, he threw a sentence at her that still echoed in her ears: “The boy is dead.”
Hatred drives her out of the room. She sees him sitting on a chair by the door. “I hate you. Divorce me.”
In the morning, he leaves her the house.
She feels relief. For the first time, the house is empty except for her and the spirit of her little one. “Will you visit me tonight?”
Auntie’s miracles grow beyond the village. She has grown used to sitting before her house to watch the sunset, chewing tobacco leaves. And just like that, Sanaa surprises her like an angry wind. In a fleeting moment, she grabs Auntie’s shoulders with a furious face: “You liar, you charlatan. The dead don’t send messages.”
Sanaa lights incense. She wears white. She combs her hair and lets it flow down to her mid-back. She prepares a basket of red grapes, arranges the old toys, raises her voice singing his favorite song, and forces Auntie to stay with her until the message arrives, or else let whatever happen.
As an experienced woman, Auntie knows that a mother who slowly lost her only child won’t back down from her threat. Still, she tries to calm her as best she can.
-Why are you sitting there like an idol? Do something.
-My dear, I do nothing. The messages arrive by the will of those who send them.
Sanaa explodes. She smashes whatever her hands can reach. She tries to strangle Auntie with her silk scarf, but Auntie doesn’t fight back. She limps like a dead body. In truth, Sanaa had not tightened the scarf around her neck; it was merely an outburst, venting the bitterness of waiting and the long separation.
“Mama…”
It was his voice. She knew it was really him. She kissed Auntie’s head and feet, begged her forgiveness, but Auntie didn’t utter a word. She simply left her and walked away.
Sanaa closed her eyes to absorb his voice. She saw him-truly saw him. Standing as never before. His body taut, his face without pain. She hugged him, wept, breathed in his scent, touched his thick hair, and vanished into the sparkle of his eyes. “I’ve waited so long for you, my heart’s son.” He dried her tears; she offered him a cluster of grapes. He didn’t take it. She sang to him, told him stories. He fell asleep in his bed, wrapped in her arms. She lost track of time and fell asleep herself, her face relaxed and soft.
Now that she knew the way, she no longer wandered among the mud-brick sorrows. His voice stretched inside her ears; his spirit flowed into hers, taking her over.
Her husband returns home against her will. A heavy grief sits on her heart, because with his return, her son’s ghost leaves. She wonders about the mystery of the discord between father and son…
Grief never runs out.
Grief renews itself.
She stares into emptiness and mutters: “Why do you hate your father?”
In her dream, she sees her son in his final hour lying on a white bed, the machines implanted in his frail body barely humming. She sees her husband run his fingers through the boy’s hair, a single tear rolling down his cheek before he left the room as the machines fell silent.
© Hanaa Metwally
Dr Salwa Gouda is an accomplished Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic affiliated with the English Language and Literature Department at Ain Shams University. Holding a PhD in English literature and criticism, Dr. Gouda pursued her education at both Ain Shams University and California State University, San Bernardino. She has authored several academic works, including Lectures in English Poetry and Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism, among others. Dr. Gouda also played a significant role in translating The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers, a comprehensive project featuring poets, philosophers, historians, and literary figures, conducted under the auspices of UNESCO. Recently, her poetry translations have been featured in a poetry anthology published by Alien Buddha Press in Arizona, USA. Her work has also appeared in numerous international literary magazines, further solidifying her contributions to the field of literary translation and criticism.
Hanaa Metwally is an Egyptian writer born in Mansoura, holding a bachelor’s degree in foreign Trade from Mansoura University. She has published several works, including the novel A Day Left to Kill (2024) and the short story collection Three Women in a Small Room (2025). She won the Suad Al-Sabah Award in 2019 and received grants from both Mufradat and Al-Mawred Al-Thaqafy foundations. Her play Philosophers Don’t Know Love was longlisted for the Doha Drama Award.