The Story of the Boy Ahmad Shawqi Abi Zayd

A nervous shock following the "Abu Ali" flood disaster robs him of his hearing and speech
Psychological treatment restores them... and the boy loses his memory!!

"The Woman's Voice" publishes it in installments

Thirteen months have passed since the flooding of the "Abu Ali" river in Tripoli, and ever since then we have kept hearing much about the frightful tragedies caused by this painful disaster. Perhaps the strangest of these stories, and the most far-reaching in its effect, is the story of the boy Ahmad Shawqi Abi Zayd, which I first heard on Friday evening, January 11...

I was in the studio of Radio Lebanon, preparing to read the eight-o'clock bulletin, when among the local news items was one whose text ran thus:

"During the flooding of the 'Abu Ali' river, a boy of thirteen was found suffering, from fright, a mental shock that made him lose his memory completely, so that he no longer knows his name, his family, his birthplace, his place of residence, or anything connected with his past. Thanks to the medical treatment he received, he has regained his normal condition, but his memory of everything before the date of the calamity is still entirely lost.

The boy is today employed at the Haifa Hotel — Beirut — Martyrs' Square — and is known by a fictitious name he gave himself, Ahmad Shawqi.

Among his descriptions: he is of medium height, dark-complexioned, black-eyed, and wears a khaki suit. Perhaps the broadcasting of this item may guide his family to him at the place mentioned, the Haifa Hotel, Beirut."

xxxx

While reading the news I happened to glance toward the sound engineer, and there beside him was a dark boy of medium build, wearing a khaki suit. That very instant something told me that this was the boy himself — especially since I had heard from colleagues that "Ahmad" had come in person during the day and told his story, and that the director's office had given the case its due importance; so it was not unlikely that the boy had come back a second time to make sure that a news item about him would in fact be broadcast...

...And what I had imagined was true indeed; I almost stammered in reading the item and the news that followed it. God! How those two black eyes captivated me, gazing in fear and anxiety... The feeling of motherhood stirred in me — no, it stormed through me — and I could hardly believe it when I came out of the studio to meet Ahmad and shake his hand, trying to smile and to encourage him. He, however, did not return my smile; he only asked me politely to help him if I would, and handed me a paper that throws

light on his story — it was, without doubt, the key to the door through which I was afterward bound to pass to the details of the story and its circumstances, if circumstances there were... And this is what the paper said:

"All I know of my past life is that I woke up one day in a bed in which I had been sleeping, and saw a person dressed in white who said to me: I am Dr. Edouard Azouri, physician of the Deir al-Salib hospital. He asked me whether I could remember how long ago I had entered the hospital, but I could not answer, for I no longer remembered anything of my past life. Then Dr. Azouri said to me: You have been here, my son, for two months, and I have been treating you for a nervous shock that struck you when the flood occurred in Tripoli; but I remembered nothing of what he said. After that, one of the hospital nurses, Sister Jeanne, undertook to stay by me and to watch over my health and teach me the Arabic and English languages. After a while three persons visited me; one of them mentioned that he had known me at the hospital in Tripoli after the flood, but I could not recall anything of that, for all these events have been wiped from my memory completely.

Now I have been given the name Ahmad Shawqi, and I am in a state of want and hardship, and I hope to find someone who will take pity on my condition and help me to direct my life in the right and sound direction, whether toward study or toward work to secure my daily living — above all toward obtaining an identity card, that I may establish my identity and knock at the door of employment by means of it.

I also hope that His Excellency the exalted President of the Republic will include me in the eye of his care and compassion, ordering that I be granted Lebanese nationality and that the means of a decent, honorable living be provided for me; and in that I place great hope."

XXXX

That night I did not sleep... How Ahmad's expressive, imploring looks pursued me in the darkness, and his touching tone as he said to me with courtesy: "Help me, madam — I beg you, help me!" — How was I to help him?! I would think for a while and pray for a while, then reread the paper. By daybreak I had drawn up a program, beginning with a visit to Dr. Edouard Azouri, the first name that appeared in the paper — he is the physician for nervous and mental diseases at the Deir al-Salib hospital. He was kind, and made my task easy as soon as he learned it concerned Ahmad; and when he saw my eagerness and interest he said to me with a smile: A strange business, this boy's. We all love him — I mean everyone who has had a part in treating or serving him. He has a long, absorbing story that began in Tripoli and has not yet ended, and I will direct you, madam, to one who can relate its events and details better than I, and who has the documentary reports for everything she says... She is Miss Renée Arman, the officer in charge at the Lebanese Red Cross society. She accompanied him for months, and was not content to serve him within the circle of her duty, but took him in and made him a guest in her own house for a time... As for me, I shall look through his private file at the hospital and come to you tomorrow with a summary of what we did for him in the way of psychological treatment and its course...

I thanked Dr. Azouri and took my leave of him, agreeing that we should meet on the morrow, and set out to arrange an early appointment with Renée Arman... What, I wondered, would this generous young lady reveal to me of Ahmad's secrets? Who are his parents and his people? Have efforts been made to search for them? Is there no way to secure a decent living for this growing boy?? And to treat him so as to recover his memory?! He deserves sympathy and service... he is noble of countenance, attractive... This is what kept running through my mind on my way home... The answers to these questions in the next issue... Until we meet again!!