Ahmad Al Charif

Heroes are not made in this world, but they are rather born into it. And they are many, though most pass you by unnoticed, undetected. Because a hero is built differently, molded with a unique set of ideals and morals that to the average person, a hero might be perceived as bizarre, if not mentally unstable.

But allow me to tell you a brief story, of one of those magnificent creatures, whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. A young boy, no more than 13 years of age. I first ran into him as i was driving my car rushing off to work, my mind riddled with the daily hassles of life. I see this young boy, who likes to go by the name of Montaser (a name in Arabic, which translates to triumphant, or conqueror) sitting calmly at the curb, patiently waiting.

Those of you who live in the city most definitely know that busy intersections spawn a countless number of bums and  beggars, who seem to have no purpose in life other than to give you grief on your way to work, as they beg you for money, in return for smudging your windshield, throwing packets of gum into your car, or in some cases offering their most insincere prayers.

A business, is what it is. No, an empire of never-ending drones pushed into labour, by bigger, meaner, and greedier individuals who see an opportunity to get richer in every way possible, no matter how ill-conceived it is.

But Montaser was different. In his eyes i saw a gleam of intelligence, in his manner the makings of limitless potential, in his words pure genuine kindness. Ever flowing.

After passing him by for many mornings, I once decided to take some time to talk with him. So I drove closer to the right, and maneuvered slowly to position my car next to him at the red light. I signaled him to come closer, he approached with a smile. I offered him money, which he refused casually. I asked him for his name, and his eyes glistened with excitement, as he said: “you can call me Montaser” I asked him what he was doing there, if he wasn’t begging for money, but unfortunately by then the light had turned green, and the wrath and fury of my fellow commuters was unleashed upon me, begging me; no wait. cursing me to drive immediately, unless I wanted to suffer the consequences.

I drove. But I could not help but think about Montaser, and what his story was. Where he fits in this bizarre world I swim through everyday, and why he chooses to sit there.

The next morning, I leave home early. Park my car at a nearby parking lot to the busy intersection, and walk over to Montaser, who greets me with politeness, and offers me half of his home-made sandwich. I sit next to him at the curb, and ask him what he is doing there.

He talks with his mouth full: “It is summer vacation, and one time I was passing here with my family in the car, when I saw this tired old woman trying to cross the street. She is so slow, and she could not cross on time, and cars would honk, drivers would shout, and the woman looked at me so sadly. Her heart spoke to mine, and we became friends. The next day I asked my dad to let me out of the car, I helped her cross. She has a son buried on the other side cemetery, she loves to visit him.”

I was speechless, for a moment. What about school? Does your father know you do this everyday? Wouldn’t you rather have fun on your summer vacation? I rained him with dozens of questions, as he smiled, and laughed at my hurried manner.

He explains that she now visits his grandma, they became friends. That his dad was proud of him for doing good, and that he feels like he is accomplishing something by doing this. Rather than play all the time.

“I am only 13, there is plenty of time to play. I cannot, not do this. Something inside of me won’t allow it. She needs me, she needs us. Wasn’t there a time when you needed anyone?”

I paused for a moment. Wouldn’t the world be a better place, if we all had a bit of Montaser in us?