On the occasion of the 50-year anniversary of Umm Kulthum's passing, Al Majalla revisits her memoirs as per the account of late Egyptian writer Ali Amin, who published a series of episodes in 1980. Ali's late brother Mustafa entrusted the memoirs to Al Majalla for publication.
Ali Amin had written the memoirs after visiting Umm Kulthum at her home, where she meticulously reviewed each word—modifying, adding, and deleting as needed. These memoirs offer invaluable insights into the circumstances of Umm Kulthum's upbringing and early career, culminating in her move to Cairo.
The following is a collection of key moments from Umm Kulthum's life, as recounted in these memoirs.
Entry into the world
Fatima, Umm Kulthum's mother, lived in a modest raw-brick farmhouse. The house had several doors that opened to courtyards, and behind each door was a small room, just three meters long and two meters wide, where entire families—husband, wife, and children—lived. In one of these cramped rooms, Fatima al-Maleegy lay writhing in pain, awaiting the birth of her child. At dawn, the newborn made her entrance into the world. The village midwife picked up the baby and carried her out to the courtyard, announcing loudly, “Congratulations! Fatima has given birth.”
The midwife refrained from specifying the baby’s gender, fearing the father’s disappointment at the news of a girl. Meanwhile, Sheikh Ibrahim, the father, sat on the floor reading a book about the Prophet’s children. At that very moment, his eyes fell on the name of one of the Prophet’s daughters. Without waiting to hear the gender, he declared, “We will name her after the Prophet’s daughter. We will call her Umm Kulthum.”
The name Umm Kulthum was unfamiliar in the village of Tamay az-Zahayrah and the neighbouring areas, sounding strange to the villagers’ ears. While Fatima did not oppose the name, relatives and neighbours objected, urging Sheikh Ibrahim to choose something simpler, such as Khadra, Badawiya, or Sit al-Dar. However, the sheikh was adamant, insisting that the newborn bear the name of the Prophet’s daughter, Umm Kulthum.
"It seems my mother secretly shared the villagers' objection to my name," Umm Kulthum later reflected, "because I remember her calling me 'Souma' in private."
At the time, Sheikh Ibrahim served as the imam of a mosque in Tamay az-Zahayrah, a village in the Senbellawein district of Dakahlia. His modest salary from the imamate was insufficient to support his family, so he supplemented it by performing religious readings at celebrations. Even with this additional income, his total earnings did not exceed twenty piasters a month—an amount that somehow sustained a family consisting of himself, Fatima, their son Khaled, and the newborn Umm Kulthum.
I don’t know how we survived on such a meagre sum. The image of our modest lifestyle does not linger in my memory. The earliest image I recall is of my grandmother, Siti Nusra, my father’s mother. She was a slender, dark-skinned woman with a sharp tongue. I remember her dressed in a black jilbab and veil, sitting on the floor as she crafted a doll for me from scraps of cloth. I watched in awe as she filled the doll with cotton, painted its eyes and eyebrows, and even cut a lock of her own hair to glue onto the doll’s head. The process of creation fascinated and enchanted me."
Another vivid memory involved her brother Khaled, who carried books and notebooks each morning to the kuttab (a traditional school) in front of their house. "I cried with envy and begged my mother to let me join him," she said. "My mother told me I was too young, but I persisted, shedding tears until my father finally enrolled me in the kuttab."
'Get up, girl! You’re the clever one!'
My father, tired of my persistence, finally enrolled me in the kuttab of our master, Sheikh Abdulaziz. Each morning, I would eagerly go to the kuttab and sit in the classroom, though I wasn’t actually learning anything. I was simply happy to be there, imitating my older brother in every way. I didn’t realise that while he was learning, I was merely observing.
A few months later, I overheard my father whisper to my mother after the dawn prayer, “I can’t afford Umm Kulthum’s expenses anymore... I only have one penny to pay for the boy.” My mother pleaded with him, urging him to find a way to cover my costs so that my heart wouldn’t be broken.
The weekly fee for the kuttab was just one penny, which we paid to Sheikh Abdulaziz. My father somehow managed to scrape together the money, ensuring I could stay in the kuttab. Over time, I transitioned from being a mere spectator to an eager student, inspired by watching my classmates write and read. I began paying close attention to Sheikh Abdulaziz’s lessons, following his movements and expressions with determination.
But my happiness was short-lived. My enthusiasm for learning and for Sheikh Abdulaziz vanished after a conflict with Aziza, my classmate and neighbour at the takhtah (a low wooden desk). Aziza mistreated me, and I resolved to take revenge. One day, before the other students arrived, I opened her drawer and broke the slate board she used for writing.
Just as I finished, the inspector from the Ministry of Education arrived. I jumped up from my seat to greet him and informed him that Sheikh Abdulaziz had not yet arrived. The inspector waited impatiently, growing increasingly frustrated at the Sheikh’s tardiness. When Sheikh Abdulaziz finally appeared, the inspector scolded him, saying, “Remarkable! The little girl is punctual, but you arrive half an hour late!”
The reprimand embarrassed Sheikh Abdulaziz, and he blamed me for his humiliation. From that day forward, he persecuted me relentlessly. He would ask questions during lessons and, without fail, turn to me with a sarcastic tone, saying, “Get up, girl—you’re the clever one!”
My classmates would burst into laughter every time he called me “clever,” mocking me with the nickname. The constant ridicule made my world feel unbearably small. I began dreading the kuttab, desperate to avoid Sheikh Abdulaziz’s harsh words and humiliating questions.
Sultan's chair
Every morning, we walked three kilometres to the kuttab and another three kilometres back to our village. Each day, I covered six kilometres on foot, but my love for playful detours often turned it into seven or eight. My nephew Saber, along with Amr from a nearby village, would join us, and the four of us would play the “Sultan’s Chair” on our way home.
The game involved three of us carrying the fourth from one telephone pole to the next. Arguments broke out constantly, as each of us claimed it was our turn to sit on the Sultan’s Chair. I was the most persistent, insisting it was always my turn. This often led us to retrace our steps to earlier poles, restarting the journey just to appease the one who felt it was their rightful turn.
Despite the long walk, I began to love the new kuttab, mainly because of the Sultan’s Chair game. My resistance to education started to fade, especially since the jurist of this kuttab, Sheikh Ibrahim, and his sons treated me kindly. Unlike Sheikh Abdulaziz, they didn’t mock me or call me “clever” in a sarcastic tone. They never singled me out with questions unless I raised my hand, eager to answer.
Their kindness transformed my feelings toward learning. I began to love my teachers, and this newfound affection sparked a love for education and a genuine eagerness to attend the kuttab.
My childhood was filled with happiness and laughter until one morning; I woke to the sound of whispers between my parents. I overheard my mother asking my father why he seemed so worried throughout the night. He sighed and confessed, “Eid is approaching, and I can’t afford to buy new djellabas for the children.”
Hearing this broke my heart. Later that morning, I went to my mother and said, “I don’t want a new djellaba for Eid. My old jellaba is lovely, and I’ll wear it for Eid.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she kissed me. In that moment, wrapped in her embrace, I felt as though I were wearing the most beautiful dress in the world.
Father's tradition
One vivid image from my childhood is of my father sitting on the ground, teaching my brother Khaled the story of the Prophet’s birth, along with poems and tawashih to help him with his extra work. At the time, I paid little attention to my father’s efforts to teach and memorise these verses. I was too busy playing with the one companion I cared about: my grandmother’s handmade doll.
Yet, repetition has a way of imprinting itself on memory. By the time I was five, I found myself unconsciously imitating my father as he taught my brother. I would mimic his gestures and his tone when he wasn’t looking.
One day, my father caught me in the act. He stood silently behind the door, watching me mimic his teaching. When I finished, he stepped forward and said, “Come with me to the Sheikh of the village’s party!”
I resisted, replying, “No, I don’t want to go.” My father tried to coax me, but I stood firm. Finally, he resorted to my greatest weakness: a dish of pudding that I adored. As soon as he waved it in front of me, my stubbornness melted away, and I agreed to go.
The party was bustling with people—around fifteen attendees. To my young eyes, it felt like an enormous crowd. My father asked me to sit beside him on a wooden sofa and sing, as performers often did in those days. But I refused to sit. Instead, I insisted on standing on the sofa and began to sing.
I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t feel nervous in front of the crowd. I stood there and sang freely as if I were performing for my little doll. Ironically, as I grew older and became a renowned singer, I developed a deep fear of the audience. The people I knew, who knew me in return, made me count a thousand possibilities before facing them. But at five years old, I was fearless, brimming with confidence.
It seems that experience, while invaluable, also teaches us to overthink.
Ten piasters
I never imagined that one day I would earn even a single penny to help ease my mother’s burdens. But one night, I found a treasure in my hand.
The host of the concert where I sang handed me a silver coin worth ten piasters. I clutched it tightly in my little fingers, cradling it as though I held the entire world.
Ten piasters! That night, it felt like more than all the wealth of Korah. I believed those ten piasters, nestled in my palm, could solve all our financial troubles.
Years later, circumstances would lead me to hold thousands of pounds in my hands. But those thousands never moved or amazed me as much as that single silver coin had. The ten piasters shook me to my core, dazzling me in a way no amount of money ever could again.
One of the sheikhs carried me on his shoulders to take me back to the village. I fell into a peaceful, blissful sleep, gripping my newfound wealth with all my might.
When I reached home, I opened my small fingers and handed Korah’s treasure to my mother. Her arms wrapped around me in a tender embrace, and I sank into a deep, contented sleep, the kind only a child could know.
My first train ride
My father no longer confined his efforts to training my brother Khaled to sing—he began training me as well. Soon, the little girl from our village became famous in neighbouring villages. My reputation spread beyond the nearby borders, and the distances we had to travel grew longer.
Our income increased enough for us to afford the new railway, albeit in third class. I still vividly remember the joy I felt boarding a train for the first time in my life. The train ran from Senbellawein station to Abu Shaq station. I climbed into the carriage, stood on the bench, and eagerly looked out the window, with my father holding the hem of my dress to keep me steady.
As the train moved, I was mesmerised by a strange sight: the palm trees and telegraph poles seemed to be running past me. This peculiar scene amazed and unsettled me. When the train stopped at Abu Shaq station, I clung to the window and refused to get off.
My father promised that we would return to the train tomorrow, but I didn’t believe him. It wasn’t until he swore by God that I relented. I let go of the window and got off the train.
We attended the party, which was exclusive to those who could afford it. The ticket price was one penny.
Gazoza clause
One day, my father stumbled upon a curious realisation: the "renowned" singers at the time always drank Gazoza (a fizzy, carbonated drink) during their performances. Seizing the idea, he promptly added a new clause to our contracts, stipulating that event organisers must provide me with a bottle of Gazoza for every performance. For me, it was the perfect arrangement! I delighted in the simple pleasures—the donkey that carried me to the event, the pudding I savoured, and the refreshing bottle of Gazoza that became my reward.
As our fame grew, so did our reach, extending to villages beyond the Senbellawein Centre. Performing alongside a group of five sheikhs, we began earning a remarkable sum—100 piasters per concert—an amount that felt like a small fortune at the time.
Our first photograph
When the band's earnings increased from 100 piasters to 150 piasters, we felt rich. My father, eager to emulate the wealthy, decided that we should also have photographs taken, just like they did with their children. So, we went to a photographer in Zagazig.
My brother and I couldn't contain our laughter in front of the camera. The photographer stood behind the lens, covered by a black sheet, and this strange sight made us burst into uncontrollable laughter.
The photographer begged my father to get us to stop laughing so he could take the picture. At that time, the rules of photography demanded that the subject remain perfectly still, like a statue, until the picture was snapped. After several attempts, we finally managed to calm down, turned into statues, and our first photograph was taken.
My father was uneasy with the idea of his daughter singing for a living. He had no problem with his son singing, but his daughter should not sing. This was the reason behind the iqal I wore for several years. My father wanted to forget that it was his daughter who was performing. He tried to convince himself that Umm Kulthum was a son, not a girl!
I "tread" through the Egyptian countryside, village by village, before eventually stepping foot in Cairo. Along the way, I had the fortune of leaving behind a number of admirers of the little girl’s voice in each village.
Donkey clause
My father wanted to take full advantage of my success and fame, so he insisted on adding a new condition to the agreements with party organisers in nearby villages. The additional clause required the event owner to provide us with donkeys to transport us from our village to the party venue and back.
The "first party" would honour half of the agreement but avoid fulfilling the second half. They would send donkeys to carry us to the event, but once the party ended, the donkeys would mysteriously disappear. And so, we were left to walk back and forth. The distance we had to walk wasn’t the hardest part of our troubles. The real challenge was the long waits on the station platforms. Many days, we would stand there for a full 12 hours. Trains passed only twice a day—once at six in the morning and once at six in the evening.
Cairo discovery
I discovered that there was a new city called Cairo, and I found out about it by chance. It happened during a casual conversation between the wealthy Izz al-Din Yakan and the headmaster of his estate. The estate owner mentioned that he would hold his annual party at his palace in Helwan to celebrate the night of Miraj. The headmaster of the estate said, "By God, we have a girl with a sweet voice." The owner of the manor replied, "Let her sing for us." And so, we travelled with the headmaster to Cairo for the first time.
I don’t remember much about the big city. Its loud images didn’t stay in my memory. All I recall is Bab el-Louk station. At that station, my father bought me a caramel, which I loved, and made me imagine that Cairo was a land of sweet caramels. We went to Ezzedine Bey Yakan’s palace, where the owner of the palace greeted us. He looked me up and down several times and asked in astonishment, "She is the one who will sing here?" When the headmaster nodded in agreement, Ezzedine Bey shouted, "What is this child’s play? No nonsense. Go down to Egypt immediately and bring Sheikh Ismail Sukkar to greet us with the party."
They placed me and the servants in the basement, but I wasn’t surprised by this treatment, nor did I feel insulted. We sat for hours in the basement while Sheikh Ismail Sukkar sang to the guests. The host was reassured that his concert would be a success. Ezzedine Bey Yakan then said to the servants, "Bring the girl and let’s see what she can do."
We were brought up from the basement to the first floor. I went up to a sofa and started singing. The guests asked me to sing several times, and eventually, the great singer Sheikh Ismail Sukkar himself came to encourage me.
Sheikh Abu Ela
I sang without feeling or awareness. I would recite the songs I had heard from my father the same way a young student repeats the multiplication table, grammar, and morphology until the phonograph changed everything for me.
It was the mayor’s phonograph. I heard Sheikh Abu al-Ela’s voice, and it shook me. As I listened, I felt as though he was singing just for me. I heard him sing hundreds of times: "I redeem him to keep the passion or to lose it." I heard him sing, "And your right is you, you are the one who asks for it," and the poem "Others are able to solace."
The phonograph fell silent, but Sheikh Abu Ela’s voice continued to echo in my ears. The children of the village used to chant the song "I am coming down to hope for a few." But for me, I lived with the songs of Sheikh Abu Ela, imagining him to be long gone. It never crossed my mind that the voice behind these songs could still be alive in the world I lived in.
Years passed. One day, I was at Sinbillawain station when I heard someone say, "Sheikh Abu Ela is here." I couldn’t believe my ears. I saw my father rushing toward the great man and shaking his hand in respect. I hurried after him, grabbed his hand, and immediately expressed my admiration. Sheikh Abu Ela turned away from me and resumed his conversation with others, but I wouldn’t let go. I insisted that he come with me to visit our village.
The old man seemed touched by my enthusiasm, and he agreed to come with me to our village, Tamai.
I went inside and told my mother that the most important person in the world would be having lunch with us. "Serve him everything we have. Slaughter all the chickens, and invite the neighbours!"
Tahwisha al-Omar
A resident of Cairo agreed with my father that I would sing at his son's celebration in Kom al-Sheikh Salama, near Cairo's Green Ataba neighbourhood. When I travelled to Cairo, I took with me my Tahwisha al-Omar (savings) — the 15 pounds I had saved from my pocket money and my holiday Eidiya (gift). We stayed in a small house, the home of the host of the celebration. Before we left to perform at the party, I carefully tucked my fortune into my pocket.
When the party was over, and I returned home, I rushed to take out my Tahwisha al-Omar from my pocket, only to find it was gone.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I searched my pocket, my brother’s pocket, and under the chairs, but there was no trace of it. I didn’t cry. The shock of the loss was stronger than any tears I could shed. I initially hid the incident from my father, but eventually, I had to confess. I won’t tell you what my father said to me.
Ahmed Rami
Through Sheikh Abu Ela, I got to know the poet Ahmed Rami. One day, Ahmed Rami met Sheikh Abu Ela and asked him, "There is a girl named Umm Kulthum; what do you think of her?" Sheikh Abu Ela replied, "Her soul says 'Ah.'"
At one of my concerts in Azbakeya Park, a young man approached me and said, "I am Ahmed Rami." It was the first time I saw the poet whose poems I had sung. I wanted to greet him, so I sang his poem, "The Lover's Eyes Betray Him," as a surprise for him.
One night, I was struck by the death of Sheikh Abu Ela, and my mind was filled with the poems of poets after my soul had been immersed in his songs. I couldn’t stay at home, nor could I bear to go to his house. I walked through the streets of Zamalek without shedding a single tear.
I walked to Fouad Street, then to Queen Nazli Street, and back through the streets of Zamalek again. I imagined that I would wash the streets of Cairo with my tears that night. But my tears were frozen in my eyes. My brother Khaled and the violinist Sami Shawa walked with me, trying to convince me to cry under any roof, but I refused.
I felt that no house could contain my sorrow, so I spent the night wandering, crying without tears, for my teacher who taught me how to express meaning through tones.
Rouhiya al-Mahdi
While we were vacationing in Alexandria, Amin al-Mahdi visited me and invited me to his house, which overlooked the Mahmudiyya Canal. It was in this house that I met my first true friend. She was a student at the al-Mir de Dieu school, and her name was Rouhiya al-Mahdi, the daughter of Amin Mahdi. We became friends just an hour after meeting. We felt an immediate connection as if we had known each other for years. Our friendship grew stronger with each passing day.
When the summer months ended, and we returned to Cairo, I made it a point to visit Amin Mahdi's house every Sunday. It was a spiritual holiday for her from school. She lived in a house in Bab al-Khalq, facing Dar al-Kutub. Every week, I travelled the distance from my apartment in the Bahler Building in Zamalek to Bab al-Khalq Square to meet my student friend, open my heart to her, and listen to her talk about her dreams while sharing mine with her.
An article that almost ended my career
One day, my father came home, visibly upset, went into his room, and called my mother. I went in and locked the door behind me. I heard a whisper, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. However, I saw my mother open the door and begin packing the bags.
I asked her, "What happened?" She remained silent, not replying, and continued filling the bags with clothes.
I then asked my father, and he said firmly, "That’s it. We’re going back to our country. We won’t stay in Egypt anymore, and we won’t return to it."
I was stunned by this sudden decision. How could we abandon Cairo, a place where I had found a glory I never dreamed of? How could we leave the "Mother of the World" after I had grown to love it, after meeting my fate there? I kept asking my mother to explain my father’s decision. I would tell her, "I want to know why we’re leaving Cairo." My mother pointed to a magazine lying on the floor. I picked it up eagerly. It was the Al-Masrah magazine, published by the theatre critic Abdelmajid Helmy. I flipped through the pages but couldn’t find an answer to my question.
I continued reading it line by line. Then, the magazine slipped from my hands. A strange piece of news caught my eye. It was about me, and it was false, damaging my reputation. The late Abdelmajid Helmy, may God forgive him, had been impressed at the time by Mrs. Munira al-Mahdia. Instead of offering her a bouquet of flowers, he threw the honour of the new singer under her feet.
But was it fair for my father to sacrifice my future because of false news? Was it fair for the victim to suffer because of lies?
My father knew the news was false, so why protest it by gathering our clothes and moving to the village of Tima?
I sought help from my father’s friends. I begged each of them to come and convince him to stay in Cairo. They came to our house, trying to persuade my father to remain in Cairo. They told him that his daughter had become famous and that fame came with its own taxes—one of which was tolerating the lies published by some small magazines. But my father refused to listen to their pleas. He was determined to leave for our village.
When I finally gave in to reality and sat in my room, writing farewell letters to my friends and acquaintances, I wrote them with tears in my eyes. Among those letters was one I sent to my friend, a student at the al-Mir de Dieu school. I poured my heart into that letter, telling her about my father’s decision and bidding her farewell, along with my beloved Cairo, as if I were saying goodbye to the entire world.
The Mahdi family came to our house, and the women spoke eloquently and wisely, discussing my father’s decision. But my father remained unconvinced. Then, they turned their attention to his love for me. They told him that his decision would destroy my future and bury the glory that awaited me beneath the soil of the village of Tamai. Still, my father was unmoved.
Finally, Amin Mahdi spoke. He said to my father, "Your departure from Cairo means you are acknowledging that the news published by Al-Masrah about Umm Kulthum is true. People flee from the truth, not from lies."
My father stood up, opened our bags, and began taking out the clothes.
First silent cinema experience
From my hotel room, I watched silent cinema for the first time in my life. My room overlooked the Cosmo Palace cinema on Emad Eddin Street. I stood there all night, captivated by the films. Sometimes, I watched the same movie six times without ever feeling bored, upset, or confused by the plot.
I was amazed to see women so tall, and I envied them for their height, as I was quite short. I would watch the protagonist leap onto a horse and ride off, while all I knew was riding donkeys—those same donkeys that carried all the villagers of Egypt to the celebrations and songs. I was used to sleeping on a donkey, and when wedding hosts invited me to perform, they often forgot to provide us with donkeys to take us to the railway station. So, we would end up walking for hours on foot.
At that time, I was a fan of cowboy movies, clapping for the hero who could wrestle six men with his bare hands and then lift the heroine onto his horse with ease. I cheered for the film’s hero, admiring his strength and skill.
The photo scandal
Khaled saw my picture hanging on the street walls in advertisements, and this was the first time my image had been featured in such a way. We agreed to keep this news a secret from our father, Sheikh Ibrahim, and stayed silent about it.
However, one of the hotel servants revealed the secret to my father, taking him by the hand to show him my picture posted on an advertisement on the walls of Emad Eddin Street. My father returned to the hotel furious, cursing and fuming with anger. He claimed that the family’s honour had been tarnished. How could my picture be displayed on the walls, with my lips and cheeks painted red, making me appear like an impolite and immoral woman?
My father demanded that I refuse to sing on stage as a protest against the disrespectful contractor who had allowed my picture to be displayed. Monsieur Vitasion, the contractor, hired Sheikh Abdul Rahim Badawi, the owner of al-Ragha’i Printing Press, which printed theatre advertisements, to convince my father that displaying my image was not an insult. He argued that images of prominent figures like Saad Zaghloul and his wife, Safia Zaghloul, the "Mother of the Egyptians," were also displayed in public spaces, shops and homes.
But my father rejected this argument, insisting that the concert be cancelled. The contractor offered to tear down all the advertisements with my picture and print new ones without it. A friend of my father’s from Mansoura warned him that tearing down my image would be seen as a sign of his disapproval of me and that it would harm my reputation among the people.
In the end, the caterer printed new ads without my picture, but my father insisted that the original advertisements, with my image, be put up.
Prohibition of "Ya Lail"
My father insisted that I maintain modesty while singing: I was not allowed to laugh, smile, or turn left or right while performing! He forbade me from singing any song that mentioned "Ya Lail." He used to say that a respectable lady did not sing about "the night". Only an immoral woman would.
I was only allowed to sing noble poems about the Prophet, peace be upon him, recite verses from the Qur'an, or sing tawashih in praise of the Prophet. If anyone suggested that I sing a song about love, longing, or wandering, my father would become furious and expel the person with great anger. He would tell them: "My daughter sings only songs that reflect good behaviour and morals."
Controlling father
My father was the sole administrator of everything. He made the decisions, gave approvals, handled negotiations, and issued directives. He would inform me of the decisions he had made, and I would implement them without question or objection. I cannot recall a single instance from those days when he consulted me about the wages I would earn, the events I would attend, or the trips I would take. He was the one who signed contracts, collected revenues, and determined expenses as he saw fit.
For example, I was unaware that the fee for a night of my performance had increased from mere pennies to pounds. I didn’t know that my once-destitute family, which had struggled to afford food, now possessed golden pounds! I also didn’t know that my father had purchased plots of land in my name in our village, Tamay az-Zahayrah (Senbellawein Centre). He never told me how much land he had bought, under whose name the contracts were signed, or how much he had paid per acre.
To him, none of these matters were my concern. My only responsibility was to stand on stage and sing.
Abdin apartment
My concerts in Cairo became more frequent, and my name began to spread throughout the big city. People would approach my father, saying, “It’s unbelievable that Umm Kulthum still resides in the village of Tamay az-Zahayrah. Whenever we want to book her for an evening, a celebration, or a mawlid, we have to travel all the way to her village to make arrangements!”
Gradually, my father was persuaded that it was time for us to move to Cairo. He began searching for a modest apartment where we could live.
One day, he came home filled with joy—he had found an apartment in the Abdin neighbourhood, in Dr. al-Dari Pasha’s building on Qula Street, No. 2. The rent was 12 pounds a month.
I rode with my father and brother Khaled in a horse-drawn carriage to see the apartment. As I looked around, I was stunned by its luxury. For the first time, I would have my own room. My father and mother would have a room, Khaled would have a room, and there was a reception room, a kitchen, and even a separate bathroom.
To first class
Suddenly, money began to pour in, and life changed in ways we had never anticipated. Before that, we lived in our humble village, enduring the hardships of subsistence living. We walked long distances because we couldn’t afford train fare. I remember when we finally had some money, we started replacing donkey rides with train journeys. At first, we could only afford third-class tickets due to our limited resources.
It was in the third class that we became acquainted with the train conductors. I would sing for them during the journey, and one conductor, impressed by my voice, allowed us to move to first class without paying the fare difference.
The price difference between a first-class ticket and a third-class one was seventy piasters. This act of kindness saved us 210 piasters for a round trip—an amount that felt enormous at the time. I could hardly believe that singing for a mere four hours could be worth such a large sum.
As time passed, I grew older, and my circumstances improved. I came to know the director of the railway authority, who oversaw the train conductors. I even met the Minister of Transportation, who supervised the director. Later, I even became acquainted with the prime minister, who presided over them all.
Yet, despite these high-ranking officials, the train conductor—the humble tracker who had shown me kindness—remained the only one before whom I felt true reverence and respect.
