This is an undated and an unfinished text written by Said Hajji most likely during his period in Damascus, Syria between 1932 and 1934.

The moment when I began to write these lines, I told myself that the woman I have had the opportunity to frequent and to live with her for more than six months would not interest the reader. I am the only one to accord her this importance because her image will be mixed with my thoughts each time I reread what I am about to write about her. I believe it suffices one to experience a certain sensation to pull out a pen and translate by writing what one has felt without any consideration to how important or how interesting it may be beyond what it provokes in us. In this type of situation we should not hide the inclinations of our heart and our feelings. Nor should we be swayed by public opinion whose merit is brief and has no bearing on the spirit that moves us.

I will therefore tell you about this women without taking into account what the common mortal thinks. One day the latter will probably seize the image I portray of her to overwhelm me with criticism and irony. I risk having this barrage exert a strong influence on my feelings like each time I meet with people I know and pretend to forget the source of my true feelings. So I will face the sarcasm of the (inflicted) criticism and irony with a smile which will say much about the lack of interest I have for the detractors of my portrayal of this person. It will suffice me to be aware that what I write reflects the net and clear feelings in me. Even if it appears sluggish and boring in the eyes of others, I do not write uniquely for them. Above all I write for myself.

Starting based on this conviction and mindset, I will try to analyze the psychology of this woman. I will lift the veil off the reflections that she has inspired in me. They are etched in my memory. Like the images of her in states of excitation and of calm, and those of her in joy and in pain. Like the situations that she finds herself in everyday and where I have felt a resounding echo deep inside because I was with her. I will be unlike the everyday person who does not have the ability to reflect deeply on the events that run their course past his eyes.

I will write what comes to my mind on her unusual character and her double quality of being a woman and a Middle Easterner who lacks education and cultural upbringing. Then I will put down my pen until the opportunity arrives where I am again by her side. For otherwise it is likely that I will lose the mental image I have of her. I would lose the thoughts I dedicate to her and the host of observations aroused by the lengthy review of past scenes and different states of mind that scroll by and monopolize my mind. It is precisely these thoughts and observations I feel a duty to record if it is only to first save them amongst my notes and to later report on at the conclusion of my story.

It is possible that essays in Arabic are still far from being able to deal with this type of subject: it seems to have no physical content and seems to be a product of an overly exuberant imagination. Meanwhile our Arabic prose is often written in an aristocratic style ill-suited for the reflection of any instantaneous emotion. It treats subjects that have little or no interest in the secrets of feelings, pays little attention to detailed and concise description nor to judicious modes of expression. Far be it for me to lay the blame on the language itself. I accuse the writers for I believe that language is an instrument to express human thoughts and that they should have no difficulty to adapt it to the rhythms of their reflections.

My narration about this woman is not an imaginary tale nor is it a succession of stories about love and passion. Nor does it tell about an adventurous episode of drama that begs to be written for posterity. It consists of pure and simple observations that are as far removed as possible from what we traditionally call fiction. Aicha, the woman, was not my lover. To be exact I did not harbor any loving feelings for her. We have not shared any secrets. We did not really know each other so well so as to for me be able to describe any loving moments I could have had with her.

She was a housekeeper in her fifties. An age that hardly invited one to build a loving relationship with her. Especially for a young man at the peak of youth like me who needed affection and who loved to dream about it. She looked old, her features left no traces of beauty after time had done its work. No traces that could make us forget awareness of our common considerations of taste for beauty by appearance or by gracious demeanor. Other than being pressed onto (human) flesh, there was nothing engaging about her face. Her eyes were not sensuous. Her skin was a barren white, adding to the humidity and freezing cold inside the walls of Damascus (in winter). As for her figure, it was not one to attract a man who seeks a housekeeper to perform her routine duties and in addition to have as a concubine to provide an easygoing lifestyle without being beholden to ever present spousal whims. Her manner of speech was of a commoner, devoid of vanity or malice. Her tone was neither hostile nor complacent. She was a housekeeper through and through.

When engaged in conversation with her, one's does not feel any palpitations of the heart nor does the mind rise to creative heights. One is not dealing with a cultivated lady in the company of a young man passionate about the sciences and fervent about knowledge. She was not one to find pleasure listening to scholarly topics or one to appreciate the gift of beauty or the art of flirtation. She was a woman who could not tell time looking at a watch nor could she distinguish between Arabic and French alphabets. She was a Middle Eastern woman from a bygone era where modesty drove men to refrain from publicly calling out their spouse's name or any other female elements of the family circle. An era where a woman's sole concern was to raise her children like a hen in a farmyard. But while a hen searches constantly for seeds to feed its baby chicks, this woman brings her infants to the world without knowing how to provide them with just a day's worth of nutrition.

And so after six months spent with each other, that is the extent of one's familiarity with Aicha, the housekeeper. So why do I occupy my mind and and engage the reader about a woman devoid of the feminine charm or beautiful attire that would justify the interest of the writer or that of the reader? That is how one can envision Aicha at first glance and how I saw her during the first days together. I harbored no illusions about her in the notes I wrote in my diary while I wondered if it was worth writing about this ordinary woman.

But the longer I stayed with her, the more we carried on with our conversations. She seemed a strange oddity, a sum of contradictions that would astonish anyone trying to fathom her secrets. She was a woman who took the liberty to mock and deride all that surrounded her. Uncluttered by scientific knowledge, her natural state of mind reacted from the deep springs of life. She lacked all feminine trappings which other women seem to carry without much awareness or sense of well being. Trappings that honor them with a distinct high prestige held in the highest esteem by the other sex.

For all practical purposes, she was a woman without much upbringing or understanding of the realities of life. She has no understanding of concepts proffered by freethinkers who resist being led by the currents of life without some manifestation of their intellect. For many, her responses could appear to take on what is commonly referred to as an epicurean character. That is, one that professes an easygoing lifestyle based exclusively on the search for pleasure and reduces the profound views of the source and motivation for life to a few trivial concepts.

Aicha mocked everyone, jeered every viewpoint and opposed any unanimous consensus by those around her. All things considered, to see her (outward) behavior one could think that she was a psychologist. The difference being that we are dealing with a simple minded woman. She is unaware of the criteria that allow in-depth analysis to split apart the imaginary from the real motivational forces of life. Hence she is unable to apply moral principles and behavioral psychology to support her statements.

She was a Moslem by rights but it would be futile to ask her to follow the requirements of Islam. She had no interest in submitting to a religion whose rites she mocked. She jeered with much irony the believers who claimed to aspire to a sense of transcendental honor. She had special disdain for this new generation of sheiks who set themselves up as 'true' clergymen for Islam.

As I was shaving, I told her, "Shaving a beard is incompatible with Islam."

She immediately replied sarcastically, "Does Islam preach facial ugliness by requiring a bushy beard?"

I thought to myself, "Beauty before worship, this is Greek to me."

Every so often, a Moroccan national came to visit. us. Though he was barely older than I am, he wore a turban on his head. Aïcha considered his visits as inappropriate.

One day I asked her, "What is the secret behind your repulsion for this affable visitor?"

She chopped back cleaver like, "It's his turban."

"And why is that?" I shot back. "Isn't a turban a sign of piety and virtue? At least that is what many in this country claim."

"That is total rubbish" she replied, "Virtue lies in the heart and the noise that gargles out from these sheiks is but the deceit they resort to for their own interests."

She smiled and I understood what she meant.

One day one of her daughters came to see her. She wore a veil. Once she left, I asked our lady, "Why do Syrian women hide their faces and avow chastity when nothing prevents them from talking with men?"

She replied, "I don't know if they fear that men will relieve their chastity by craftily exploiting their facial beauty. But the woman that does not allow men to see her face is the same one that tries to hide her desire to free herself from imposed modesty."