Thank you, your eminence.1
In the Name of God, the Powerful and Merciful.
My name is Galal Osman Badawi.
You must understand, I have suffered a great deal. In the last two years, I have lost my mother and father, God rest their souls. Taken by what has taken so many and will take more. I was the eldest of their eight children, the eight remaining after four of my siblings died in their youth: one before me, one immediately after me, and the other two more recently. Being only 18, I could not handle all these children, so they went to my Uncle Ali. He has a few feddans, but not enough to support the seven— the oldest is fifteen and the youngest a year old—and his own three. To help, I have sold my parent’s house and taken to selling my work anywhere my donkey will take me.
My father just called him donkey, but I found that disrespectful. I call him Harun al-Rashid. Do you know why I call him that? If you will pardon me, my grace, let me tell you. I was riding him one day, it was not long after my father had died, God Rest his soul, and I had started traveling to find any work I could. He was new to me and I to him and he was very unsettled as I rode. Before the death of my father, God rest his soul, I had never ridden him. I did occasionally feed him, but never rode him. So that day, he was doing his best to buck me off. He was quite sly; he would tread for a while and then suddenly buck to try to send me to the ground. That day he tried several times to toss me but was unable to on account of my strong hips. One time, as we neared a large tributary, he started kicking out his legs. At first, I was only slightly moved because I was prepared. But to my great surprise he started to gallop, the speed caught me off guard and I fell and nearly rolled into the tributary.
As I picked myself up, I saw an abandoned fishing rod. It was not much, one of those fellaheen inventions, but I thought it was a sign from God. Also, the donkey, who at that point I still just called donkey, looked in no mood to carry me. So, I figured a bit of fishing would not be bad. Much to my surprise, I caught several gigantic fish. I think five. I was overjoyed because it meant that I could feed my family that night without having to work the fields that day. I stored the fish in some leaves, strapped them to the donkey, and pulled his bridle towards home. I still couldn’t ride him.
It was very hot that day, that may have been the cause of the donkey’s poor mood. As I walked, the donkey suddenly stopped and having wrapped the bridle tightly around my hand I was again thrown to the ground. As I picked myself up from the dirt, I came to find a small brown pouch. Seeing no one around to claim the pouch, I was urged by God to open it. I did and what did I find but a handful of piasters. More than I could make in two weeks. It was a big enough sum that if anyone had lost it, they would be looking for it. The satchel was also quite dirty, it must have been there awhile. Since it was a gift from God, I donated double the rightful amount to the local mosque when I went to afternoon prayers, the adhan rang out as soon as I opened the pouch. As it happened, I was quite close to a village, I can’t remember the name
Most of the rest of the money was used to buy an old saddle for the donkey. I used just a little to satisfy my thirst with a sweet syrup from a drink shop I saw. After being revived by the prayer and drink, I rode the donkey home, him being satisfied with the saddle. My family ate fish stew that night. The next day, I decided that he deserved a name.
I am sorry, but I needed to explain why my donkey had a saddle and an interesting name. Otherwise, your grace, I am afraid you’d think I had stolen both. You know how the fellaheen have sly, thieving hands. Not me, however, even though I am as poor as those who use it as an excuse. They were poor but happy people, my parents, God rest their souls. Thank God we had a small house on the piece of land my father inherited from his father. They say my grandfather took it from the Basha, but I know the great Basha gave it to him.
How do I know? Well, my mother told me that one day my grandfather was tilling the ground. It was a beautiful day, one that you thank God for because you can sit out all day and never sweat nor shake. Perfect. Well, as he was tilling, he saw the Basha and his son walking the fields. Even though they were dressed like him, he could tell it was the Basha and his son by the way people flocked to them like flies. He was a very generous man, the Basha. He would walk with a purse full of money, handing it out to anyone who asked. If it was not money, then it was bread or clothing. My grandfather, however, was too proud to take any charity. He would rather starve than submit. He was quite foolish. He thought he was no different than the Basha. They were both sons of the land.
Even still, he did turn his horse so that he could pass by. He felt it rude not to at least greet the Basha, whose land he was working on that day. Now the Basha’s son was quite an adventurer. And he was running all about. He was also a bit careless. Some people are like that, always looking up, never careful where they tread. They said it was because the son had a great respect for God and all that he had been given. Some others said he loved watching the birds. I do not know. But as my grandfather was riding to see the Basha, he saw the son run towards a deep irrigation ditch hidden by reeds. At first, he thought the boy would see it, but then he realized that he had no awareness of it. The boy must have been no older than two or three. The Basha, meanwhile, was very busy talking and gifting. The beggars were only concentrated on the Basha’s open palm. It was only my grandfather who saw the impending disaster. He arrived just as the boy fell in. It was by the Grace of God because the boy submerged and was unable to catch his breath. The ditch was quite deep. My grandfather jumped from the tiller and hurled himself after the boy. He was quite the swimmer.
The boy was not harmed, but started screaming, and the Basha ran over. At first the Basha thought my grandfather had done something to the boy, but quickly realized—he was a very clever man—the great deed my grandfather had done. He was so thankful that he offered everything he carried that day to my grandfather, who turned it all down. But then the Basha insisted, forcefully as he could, that my grandfather accept a piece of land, because even that was not worth the life of his son. My grandfather was prideful but not foolish, so he accepted. The Basha’s words, as they always were, were true and so my grandfather was given the piece. My grandfather had the great luck of having all his ten children survive. But that meant they inherited crumbs.
As my father told me, my grandfather’s mother was the cousin of the mother of the Basha. My mother would always say that was an example of the mysteries of God. How he could make relatives both king and pauper. This connection has always kept us respectful of the Basha and his family. I have worked to make sure no one speaks ill of our cousins. And there are evil doers who do. Some spread rumors about the misdeeds of the family and their Godlessness. But I have never seen them place one foot wrong. When I see them, they are in the mosque or working. I have heard from other villages tales of Beys and Bashas who roam the fields drunk or high and how shouts of gambling and sex float out of their villas.
Others speak of how greedy the Bey’s family must be to own all this land. There is a great deal of envy among the people. Foolish fellaheen. They think that they deserve some of what the Bey, God Rest his soul, had. I always ask them: Why do you think so? Because we work so hard in the fields and they lounge in their house, they say. But they do not realize how hard the Bey, God Rest his soul, worked. They do not understand the worries that come with all the land and power. So many mouths to feed. So many criminals to watch out for, like the one who killed him. I tell these people that to think they are owed something goes against God. This system is in place due to His will. To be mad at the Bey, God Rest his soul, is to be angry at God.
The Bey had not forgotten us with his wealth. Every holiday, he provided more meat than anyone in the daira could eat. The Ramadan iftars he provided were talked about by everyone from here to Mansoura. Did you know he provided iftars here and in Cairo? He did not want his name on the mosques and schools in the daira, but I know he built them all with his money. Or the water fountains, who do you think paid for them? I have heard of other little villages where people are less farmers and more slaves. He was a good righteous ruler, why hate him for what God has blessed him with?
Interrogator: Mr. Badawi, that is all well and good, but why was a rifle, the murder weapon, found under your bed?
Galal: Yes, yes, sorry, your eminence. I was getting to that.
Sijillat mahkamat al-mansura al-ibtida’iyya al-shar’iyya 15 Rajab 1338 (Mansura Court Record 9/28, 4 April 1920)