OTHERS: Five elements

CHAPTER 4.1: EARTH

20 September 2032, 02:00 PM

They say family is a gift from God. In Islam, family is the fundamental unit of society. It's the first cell of existence, the cocoon in which the soul grows and takes shape. Family is not just blood and a shared name, but the place where you learn to love, to suffer, to give, and to stay. "Paradise lies beneath a mother's feet", said the Prophet, and I've repeated those words countless times while watching my mother. Sometimes I wonder if God can hear my exhaustion when I'm silent. Does He see my hands crack open from blisters as I carry sacks of cement under the scorching Egyptian sun, or as I bend metal rods until my muscles pound like hammers on stone?

My name is Hibatullah. It means "Gift from God." Ironic, because sometimes I feel more like a punishment than a blessing. I'm twenty-four years old. Every morning, I wake up before the sun, wash my face with cold water from a tin bucket, put on worn-out sandals, and step out into streets that remember better days. I live on the outskirts of Cairo, where homes cling to each other like weary souls in search of support. Our home isn't big, but it's enough for the four of us: my mother, my sister, my brother, and me. My father died five years ago. His heart just stopped, as if it simply decided it had had enough. I was nineteen back then, barely knew anything about working. From that day on my family looked at me like I had answers I never had. All I had was quite panic in my chest and empty pockets. 

My mother is ill. She has a persistent cough, and her face has become a thin shadow of the woman she once was. My brother and sister still go to school. Samir is sixteen and dreams of becoming a doctor. Amal is fourteen, with eyes that still look at the world with hope—the kind I've lost. She dreams about becoming a teacher. I've learned that other people's dreams can hold your heart together.

I work. I've done it all—construction, hauling cement, cleaning the courtyards of the rich, selling fruit. It doesn't matter what the job is, as long as I can bring home something to eat. My hands are cracked. The skin on my fingers is as tough as tree bark. My body is muscular, not from a gym but from survival. My eyes are dark, tired but alert. I have a beard. My clothes are simple—a cotton shirt, old jeans, and sandals. 

Despite everything, I have a hobby. After work, I often escape to the rooftop of our building, where I draw. I have an old, battered box filled with pencils and faded paints—my small sanctuary. My hand moves almost on its own, sketching the things my heart doesn't know how to put into words. Sometimes I try to draw my father's face from memory. He had thick, furrowed eyebrows and hands so large they looked like they could carry the whole world. When he looked at me, I felt truly seen—like I mattered. But now, when I try to draw his mouth, my hand trembles. The exact shape escapes me, slipping through memory like water through fingers. And that terrifies me—how the details of someone you love can fade, even when they're etched into your soul. One day, I'd love to study design. Maybe architecture. I look at the buildings I help construct and wonder—what if I could design them, instead of just carry them on my back? But the world doesn't wait for your dreams. My mother often looks at me with that silent gaze that hurts. Like she knows I'm tired but doesn't ask. 

It's not easy being the eldest. It's like wearing an invisible armor around your heart. You're not allowed to break. You have to be the rock, even when it rains for days. And here in Egypt, life can be like the desert wind—harsh, relentless, dry. Still, in that dryness, you learn to love the small things: your sister's smile when she brings home a good grade, the smell of bread early in the morning, or just a moment of silence when everyone is asleep. 

Some would say I'm old for my age. Maybe I am. But when life forces you to keep walking even when your feet bleed, you stop counting years and start counting the days when you didn't cry inside. Last night, my brother Samir came home from school with a biology book. He sat next to me while I studied the blueprint of a building I found and asked me:

- "Do you think you'll ever go to college?"

- "Maybe, if it's God's will!"

I didn't tell him that every time I pay the bills, I feel my dream slipping through my fingers like sand through a sieve. But I don't complain. I mustn't. Every sacrifice I make is a brick in the foundation of their future. I am the foundation. And the foundation isn't seen—but without it, nothing stands. 

And this is my story. Short said. Work is finally over, and I'm making my way home, my clothes heavy with dust and sweat. Every step I take, my thoughts are with my family. Their smiles, their comfort—that's what keeps me going. Their happiness isn't just important to me. It's everything!