He utters these words as if he were the only one who suffered from the road's cruelty. He tries to move a step forward, but the bodies that jostle around him in other directions hinder him. He turns round to assure himself that all is well, that no devilish hand is going to snatch one or more of the Italian apples from the boxes - he imagines this could happen, despite the fact that they are in sealed boxes. Should this happen, he would have to make good the loss. He has to deliver the boxes safely and soundly to their final destination. Afterwards he will receive no more than ten piastres. 'From the Tuesday market to "Fashloom" - all this for ten piastres!'

He shakes his head in disbelief... 'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't know its hardships!'

The cart sways to the right and to the left and his heart beats fast . .. Oh Protector... he spits on the ground as he secretly curses the progeny of the impetuous youth who was pushed by one of his friends and chose to fall over the cart. Had he not maintained its balance at the last minute, a disaster would have happened. He feels the thick rope pressing painfully on his shoulder.

He had hoped for a whole year to buy a beast of burden to pull the cart instead of hauling it himself but that wish vanished. He tried more than once throughout last year to save ten piastres a day, but having returned several times without money in his pocket, he had to abandon the idea. 'Make room! Clear the road! You who don't know its hardships!'

His foot stumbles on a stone and the pain nearly brings tears to his eyes. He rubs the injured foot with the other one to ease the pain and with a sudden, violent, rebellious movement, jerks the cart forward. Once again he thinks of the crowds with their slowness that arouses his resentment and sense of futility. Several thoughts race through his head to gain control: how long will he remain in charge of this disgraceful cart, which costs him two piastres a day to hire? He frees his right hand and feels his shoulder... those tormentors who refuse to make way for him! If only one of them had to pull the cart just once, they would soon experience the degree of his suffering! He whose fate it was to pull it several times each day. He halts when he reaches a bend in the road and pulls, but the cart refuses to move, as if it was nailed to the ground. He tries again but the cart will not budge. He takes the rope off his shoulder and goes to the back to investigate. He finds that four children had been clinging on to it but they out-race the wind the instant they see him rushing towards them. He replaces the rope round his shoulder as storms of rage howl in his depths and the image of his children, AIi and Muhammad, floats in his mind; their long wait for him each day and their sneaking a secret ride on the cart... not only that, but when things didn't go well for him, especially on Tuesdays and Fridays, he would fill the cart with children from the street on his way back home.

He feels that tears would betray him should he continue to think about such things. He had never wept in his life, not even as a child when he was assaulted by a British soldier. He did not cry but picked up a large, solid stone and nearly brained him with it.

Once when a traffic patrolman wrote out a fine because he drove the cart through Martyrs Square, he still did not cry or beg for mercy. 'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't kno;v its hardships!'

What has happened to people? Why do they persist in obstructing him? He stops for a while to assure himself that the apples are safe and counts the boxes for maybe the hundredth time, then he advances slowly, people's loud voices and shouts increasing the tautness of his nerves and his pain. If only he could get out of this hell! He exerts a greater effort and attempts to increase his speed, but the cart shakes and judders so violently, his heart nearly stops beating. He must save his load more than his own life. Should any damage befall it - God forbid - he would have to spend days and nights in jail as a punishment. The owner of the apples had threatened him so, and he was in no doubt that he would carry out his promise should anything... ouch! He stubs his foot on another accursed stone... he must concentrate his attention solely on the load in the cart, if he knew what was good for him. 'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't know its hardships!'

He repeats these words in a voice charged with entreaty and pain several times a day... but despite this everybody refuses to make way for him. He looks to the left and to the right and advances, his fears over the load increasing with each step he takes. Thoughts and imaginings never giving him an opportunity to relax. A deadly anxiety possesses him. His thoughts take him far... Jar away, cause him to forget his precious load. Yet the path of his life, a large part of which had been spent pulling his cart, and another large part moving between the British army camps and the local ones, this he cannot forget. He also cannot forget the long days spent looking for work to no avail. All these things make him think and think until he is exhausted.

He remembered the first day he went to the Haf asking him to rent the cart, and the Haj's insistence that he pay a deposit of three piastres - his retreat to the quarter where he lived, his gathering the remnants of his clothes and those of his wife plus her silver dowry ¬the only things she had left since her marriage. Then his going to the market and the hours spent haggling over them in a voice overladen with curses and defiance, the eyes of those who knew him smarting him with their cruel reproach. He was certain the news would spread like wildfire in the neighbourhood, but that did not bother him then. He sold the clothes and the jewellery for two piastres, and returned home, in utter despair and it was only with the entreaties of some friends that the Haj grudgingly accepted the two piastres.

'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't know its hardships!' The strong aroma of the Italian apples assails him. He remembers that he has never tasted an apple in his life! What would happen if he took just one? He nearly carries out his intent but when he sees the boxes defying him with their sealed flimsy wooden covers, he retreats... his yearning and longing for one increasing. He whips round in a lingering movement, his eyes searching the faces of passers-by, as if saying to them: 'Does my suffering please you?' 'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't know its hardships!'

He feels an overwhelming happiness as he discovers himself occupying the middle of the road, car hooters following him persistently to let them pass. He deliberately slows his pace, smiling with satisfaction, but when he sees a policeman moving towards him his smile vanishes and he quickens his step. Hopes, which so often toyed with his imagination, now invade his thoughts, turning to bitter anguish, arousing in his very being the eternal question: 'Why are our wishes never fulfilled?' Why? Even though they are modest and trivial? ... Is he to remain in charge of this cart always? Pulling it from sunrise to sunset till the last day of his life? Why? Did he do something to deserve all this punishment? ... He was a good person

. 'Haj' is a title given to a person who has made the Holy Pilgrimage to Mecca. He is usually a man of standing and prestige in the community, well.off financially to be able to afford the trip.

. .. liking people and wishing them happiness... and suffering for them. 'Still, never mind, trust time. The path of everything changes.'

He stops for a while watching each side of the road then plunges on. Just before he turns a corner, he feels something solid smash against his forehead. He staggers backwards and feels a sharp pain in his foot. The cart shakes violently and tilts, overturning some boxes, but he pushes his arms against it until it straightens then he proceeds to put the boxes back on. He wishes he could chase the rascal who seizes this opportunity to snatch an apple, or does he? During all this some passers-by have begun to converge and crowd around him. He feels parts of his body start to disjoint from each other. He puts a hand to his forehead and it turns red, the pain increasing and his legs begin to give way. The looks in the eyes that surround him remind him of those of the Haj, the owner of the cart. He tears a long strip of cloth off his robe and carefully bandages his head. To the amazement of the eyes that watch him and in spite of the intensity of the pain, he bends forward and pulls the cart. Before any of the passers-by utter a sound, he shouts at them: 'Make room! Clear the road, you who don't know its hardships!' and disappears down the long road!