The Bag is Not Mine

SadaNews - It wasn’t my bag, even though it looked like my bag in color, type, and size. But strangely enough, my name and phone number were written on it, in my handwriting. I rested on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a long time as I tried to unravel this puzzle. My handwriting, my number, and my name were on the bag with a black magic pen, but the contents of the bag did not belong to me. No one could convince me that it was mine. First of all, I am not a woman, nor do I have a wife or a girlfriend expecting such gifts from me. Everything in the bag was feminine belongings that did not concern me. I was returning from Istanbul to Ramallah after participating in the International School Theater Festival. I checked the bag item by item, and my confusion multiplied; nothing inside belonged to my dreams or reality. I turned it upside down, spread everything on the bed in search of a gap that could lead to my identity?

The idea was crazy and funny, and I immediately dismissed it from my head, but a voice said to me: Try it, you won’t lose anything, then nobody will know. What would it mean to call my number to check if the bag was mine? I heard myself laugh as I tapped my digits into my mobile before stopping at the last number. I called a friend who works at Jawwal:

- Ahmad, listen to me. If I want to call my number from my number, what might I hear? I heard a loud laugh from Ahmad, the kind we all know, which sounds like a knife when it’s mocking or careless about things. Ahmad hung up on me because he was busy or because he thought I was joking about him and his company, and he returned to tell me in the evening that he passed my question to the company’s director and the employees, who burst into laughter.

- Ahmad, I’m serious. Technically, is it possible that I can call my number from my own number?

- Oh, man, why are you asking? Try it and see what you hear!

Okay, another question, bear with me, please. Is it possible for two people to have the same number?

Impossible, my friend! What are you saying? Calm down, man, what’s going on with you?

I hung up on Ahmad out of embarrassment or despair because he didn’t try to understand me.

I dialed my digits, waiting for an automated voice to tell me that there was a technical error or that it was impossible to expect a response from someone else. The surprise was that I clearly heard a waiting ring, and a voice came from the other end:

- Hello

- Hi

I hung up and my entire body trembled, the mobile slipped from my hand, I left it on the ground, I ran toward the bathroom, stumbling over chairs, panting as if someone was chasing me with a saw. I took a strong shower, keeping my head under the water, trying not to think of anything. But the voice of the man carrying my own number would not leave my head:

Hi

I surfaced from under the water, and the word "Hi" echoed terrifyingly around me, repeatedly: Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi Hi. I called my friend Ahmad:

Ahmad,

Ahmad, please don’t hang up, I swear I called my number and someone else answered!

Ahmad hung up, the remnants of his laughter mixing with the word "Hi." I hurried out of the house, remembering that I was barefoot in front of the Al-Mansi restaurant. I quickly went back, put on my shoes, and left. I stopped, panting, in front of Abu Khalil’s restaurant and met an old study friend. "Hi," he said to me, smiling, and panic surged through my feet. I fell to the ground, and a doctor standing in the restaurant's queue approached me:

- Do you have diabetes, son?

- No, no, doctor, I don’t have anything, thanks, thanks.

"Hi," the doctor replied, returning to the falafel queue. I ran with all my might. My fast, stumbling run attracted people’s attention, and some who knew me shouted: "Ziad, what’s wrong?"

Have you lost your mind?

I called my number again at home, and the voice cut in decisive:

- Hi

- Who are you? May I know?

Who are you calling from my number, to my number? How can this happen?

I don’t know; you are the one carrying my number, and that’s strange.

Okay, what’s your name?

Ziad.

And you?

Ziad.

In the psychiatric hospital in Bethlehem, I sat in a room alone, staring at nothing. I saw a nurse moving around me, I asked him: What’s your name, sir?

Ziad, he replied.

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

The doctor entered: I have a feeling your name is Ziad, doctor, isn’t it?

That’s right! How did you know, Ziad?

In the ambulance, the nurse Ziad sat near me, and my father, uncle, and brother were with me. Where are you taking me?

To the house, Ziad; you will rest there, and we will convince you that it is technically impossible to call your number from your own number. We will do that in front of you, and you will soon return to your health.

We all sat at home, and the suitcase remained upside down on the bed, and all the things were scattered here and there. My father took my mobile, dialed my own number: and the surprise was:

- What do you want, Ziad? You’ve driven me crazy! Why do you keep ringing me? What’s up?

My father fell to the ground, and my uncle and brother fell on top of him. I looked at my bag, and it began to rise, and along with it, its feminine belongings rose. The bag walked in front of me, heading towards the door, which opened automatically for her. The bag left, accompanied by my number and my name, and did not return. My father and brother and uncle stood up, I made them eggs and potatoes, I made them tea with lemon, and when they were about to leave the house, at the door, my uncle looked at me in surprise before he exited with my father and brother. I felt that I knew the secret of his astonishment or perturbation, he wanted to tell me "Goodnight, Ziad" but remembered that I was no longer Ziad.