There once lived a man in a small Palestinian village perched on the slopes where olive groves shimmered in the morning sun. To all who knew him, he was an ordinary man, quiet, steady, a farmer who tended his fields without complaint. Yet one season, something strange began to trouble him. It started as a heaviness in his chest, then a tightness in his throat, and finally a pounding in his head that made his nights restless and his days long.
But it was not an illness of the body.
Deep inside him, something pushed and pulled, knocking like a trapped bird desperate to be let free. One morning he sat up from bed, pressing his temples, and cried out:
“There is a story in my head, and it is suffocating me!”
His wife, startled, rushed to his side.
“A story? Then tell it,” she urged.
“I would,” he groaned, “but no one has time to listen.”
Determined to rid himself of the strange burden, the man rose and walked through the village. He approached the baker first, who was shaping dough with flour-dusty hands.
“Brother,” the man pleaded, “I must tell someone my story. Will you listen?”
The baker glanced at the long line of customers gathering outside.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but if I do not bake, the village will go hungry.”
And he turned back to his work.
Still aching, the man walked to the carpenter’s shop, where the scent of fresh wood filled the air.
“Friend,” he said, “I am unwell. A story is stuck inside me. If I can share it, I will be cured. Will you hear it?”
The carpenter wiped sweat from his brow.
“I wish I could,” he answered, “but I must finish this door before sunset.”
The man continued from house to house, workshop to workshop. Each person offered sympathy but no time. The village hummed with chores, work, and obligations. And with every refusal, the story inside him throbbed more painfully, as though it would burst his head open like an overripe pomegranate.
By midday, he felt faint. His legs were weak.
He wandered past the well, past orchards, until he reached an old fig tree at the edge of the village. Beneath its generous shade sat an elderly woman, the kind who had seen many seasons come and go, and who understood that the rhythm of life was measured not only by labor but also by listening.
She watched him approach, breathing heavily.
“Sit, son,” she said, patting the ground beside her. “Your face is gray as ash. What troubles you?”
He sank down, clutching his head.
“There is a story inside me,” he whispered. “No one will hear it, and it is crushing me.”
The old woman nodded knowingly.
“A story must be shared,” she said. “It is like kneaded dough, it rises and rises until, if ignored, it collapses. Let your words rise. I will listen.”
The man released a long breath, as if a gate had been unlocked inside him. And he began to speak.
He told his story, every detail, every twist, every moment of fear, humor, and revelation. As he spoke, the tightness in his chest loosened. His voice grew steady. The pounding in his head faded like a storm passing over distant hills.
The old woman listened with the patience of the desert stones, nodding gently, her eyes soft. She did not interrupt nor rush him. She honored every word.
When he reached the end of the tale, he exhaled deeply.
The heaviness had lifted. His body felt light again, his head cool, his spirit at peace.
“You cured me,” he said gratefully.
The old woman smiled.
“No,” she replied. “You cured yourself. A story is meant for two, the teller and the listener. Without one, the other withers.”
He rose, bowing in gratitude, and walked back toward his village, feeling healthier than he had in months. The sun glowed golden across the hills, and he thought of all those who were too busy to hear his story. He resolved never to ignore a storyteller again, for he now understood a simple truth:
stories must be shared to stay alive.
And beneath the fig tree, the old woman whispered to herself, “His story is mine now too,” and she tucked it gently into her memory, ready to pass it on when the next listener came.
Moral of the Story
Stories are living things. They heal, connect, and remind people of their shared humanity. A story unshared becomes a burden, but a story told becomes a gift.
Knowledge Check
1. What caused the man’s illness in the folktale?
His illness came from a story trapped inside his head, symbolizing the emotional need to express oneself.
2. Why did the villagers refuse to listen?
They were too busy with daily work, showing how communities can overlook the importance of storytelling.
3. Who finally helped the man?
An elderly woman sitting beneath a fig tree, representing wisdom and attentive listening.
4. What does the fig tree symbolize in the story?
It symbolizes refuge, patience, and the natural space where stories find their proper listeners.
5. What is the central cultural lesson of this Palestinian folktale?
That storytelling (al-hakawati tradition) is essential for communal healing and cultural continuity.
6. How is healing portrayed in the story?
Healing occurs through sharing one’s burden, in this case, a story, reflecting the social and emotional power of oral tradition.
Source
Adapted from the Palestinian folktale “The One Who Had a Story in His Head,” archived in Palestinian oral tradition and listed under “Folktale” on Palestinian Journeys.
