Monday, July 15, 2019

يا حسافه - عارف الزياني

حين بحثي عن كلمات الأغنية استغربت عدم وجود نسخة لكلماتها على الشبكة، أضعها هنا لمن يبحث.
أغنية جميلة.



من بعد شوقي اللي شرّق واللي غرّب
والخيال اللي بهوى عيوني تغرّب
يا حسافه يا حسافه

كل دقيقة يا بعد روحي معاك
نغمه حلوه كل هالأشواق في هواك
يا عطر لحن وجودي
أنت زهري وأنت عودي
والندى في الروح نتريا لقاه

شاللي خلى الشوق يشرق من سما؟
أرجع أمشي يا حبيبي 
في الهوى نفس المسافة
يا حسافه يا حسافه

يا اللي سميتك دهر معنى حياتي
وسقيتك من شراييني وذاتي
يا عمر كان، وتبدّى
اللي ينسى من يودّه
عمره ما عاش الهوى لحظة بحياتي
وأنا مثل الطيب في الدنيا صفاتي 
أرجع أمشي يا حبيبي 
في الهوى نفس المسافة

يا حسافه يا حسافه

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

What changed?

Now that I have my attention. I want to do an experiment to see what changed in the past years, so I'll answer some questions that were posted in June 2007. Let's see what changed in 7 years.

They were answers to 23 questions. I'm answering as I read. Here we go:

1- Available or Single: Table for one please.
2- Best friend: You. Everyone.
3- Cake or Pie: Neither. Knafa probably.
4- Essential Item: سجادة الصلاة في شنطة السفر #شدعوة
5- Favorite Color: Orange
6- Gummi bears or Worms: Neither.
7- Home town: Wherever my heart is at a given time.
8- Indulgence: People watching. Writing.
9- Jaunuary or February: January. Coz it's my birthday and it's colder.
10- Kids: Hello kids!
11- Life: is beautiful.
12- Marriage: an interesting concept, a unique bond.
13- Number of sinblings: 1 lovely energetic girl, 1 creative rocker boy.
14- Orange or Apple: Apple.
15- Phobias: None. Ok maybe insects, but I need to double check.
16- Favorite Quote: إمشي يا روح امك - أنونيموس
17- Reason to smile: No reason.
18- Season: Fall.
19- Tag three people: I don't think anyone is here to tag.
20- Unknown fact about me: In an alternative universe I'm a Buddhist monk.
21- Worst habit: I'm perfect.
22- Your favorite food: Shawarma.
23- Zodiac: Capricorn.

This turned out to be really silly hahaha.
Anyway, I'll go back and read the old answers now and see the difference.
.
.
I think I just got older, I can see the enthusiasm in that guy (was 26 at the time). Feels to me like the essence of the spirit is the same, just more grounded now.
That was interesting. Felt like I was having a conversation with myself from 7 years ago. Enlightening in a way.


Five Years Later

Five years later from my last post I decide to revisit my blog again.
It's an experiment I want to start, making writing a regular practice. I hope I get used to it.
Good luck to me!

J

Monday, September 14, 2009

قد كده ملهوف عليك

الجنس على أنغام أم كلثوم..

عنيف.. ثوري.. كتصفيق الجالس في الصف الحادي عشر

كتنهيدتها –المبالغة- في الأوقات الخاطئة

لذة الاشتياق لشيء ألفته/تكتشفه للمرة الأولى

فيه هيبة الخطيئة.. وفداحة ضياع هيبة عازف يجر نغمة نشاز..

هو كما هو.. فوضى لذيذة تثير الحواس

تستفزها

كفعل فادح في مكان عام

كمتعة اختلاس القبلة في سينما مزدحمة

كشرب خمر رخيص لأنك تشتهيه في هذه اللحظة بالذات

هو كما هو..

إيقاع لا علاقة له بمحيطه

عارٍ وشهي كالجنس الصباحي..

قليل أدبٍ في لحظة ليس للأدب فيها مكان

صحيح ويكاد أن يكون خطأ

لحظة غير عاقلة التهمت فيها الرغبة الطرب فتوهجت أغنية روك

هو بالنهاية كما هو..

جنس على أنغام أم كلثوم

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

بؤس

لا أعلم لماذا خبأت هذا النص حتى عن نفسي لكل هذا الوقت. شيء ما فيه لم أشأ أن يراه أحد، ولا حتى أنا. ورغم عرضي له الآن، فلا أعلم سبب كرهي له، ربما لأنه لا يمثلني، أو لأنه يمثلني كثيراً. المهم أن نشري له اليوم هو طريقتي للتخلص منه.
هي تقول أنك ستكون دائما "your own worst critic"، وأنا مقتنع بأن الـ "كريتيكس" لا يفهمون.. فأنا لا أسعى للقسوة على نفسي.

...
...

على البوسفورس..
حيث ترك ملايين العشاق أمانيهم على مدى الأزمان..
وأضاع العثمانيون سلطنتهم..
وضاعت أعظم حضارات التاريخ..
على شواطيء بيزنطة..
وعلى وقع أنغام موسيقى قصر حضرة السلطان..
وضوء الألعاب النارية.. وبهجة الأطفال..
على تلك المياه الراكدة.. على ثورة التاريخ.. تركته يمضي..
تسبح به الأمواج في كل اتجاه..
أعطيته نظرة الشفقة الأخيرة.. كان مني.
كنت أنا.. وتركته يمضي..
دون أدنى شعور بالذنب.. ولماذا الذنب إن لم يعنّي؟
"سأتركك كما تركتك من قبل..
وأعدتك من قبل.. لفتاة الأحلام التي أنهتك أحلامها.
لم يعد لك مكان وأنت البائس/المحطم/الساذج.. فلا مكان عندي للضعفاء.
أرميك في أبعد البقاع راجياً إياك ألا تعود..
حتى مع توسلاتي..
إذهب مع حطام الحضارات..
فأنا لا أستحقك.
...
...
على البوسفورس..
أرتشف نبيذي..
أنفث دخاني..
وأبكي.
أبحث عنك ولا أجدك..
تماماً كما أردت لك أن تكون..
بعيداً عني.

Monday, August 24, 2009

هذي

أكتب..

....

....

أكتب..

....

....

أكتب عن عبثي..

أكتب عن صبري، عن غدري، عن الفرص الضائعة.. أو تلك التي أضعتها بإرادتي..

واكتب عن تلك التي رفضت أن تسميها فرصاً.

أكتب عن الرغبة الجامحة، المحرمة، ولذتها.. واكتب عن متعة الشبق الذي لا تعرفه، واكتب عن الذي لم تره..

أكتب عما رسمته في خيالك، أكتب أنك لم ترسمه، وأن لا خيال لك أصلاً لترسم فيه..

أكتب عن العجز، عن التوهان.. عن أنك تعرف تماماً ما تريد ولا تعرف بالتحديد ماذا تريد.. وأنك في الحقيقة لا تريد شيئاً.

صف لي ابتسامتها، أنفها، وجهها البريء/نزق روحها..

أكتب عن شهوة المظاهر الخادعة.

أو ابق كما أنت، رتيب/عديم الفائدة/بليد، ولا تكتب شيئاً.

....

....

....

طيب أرسم..(؟)

بس أنت فاشل في الرسم أساساً..

Sunday, July 12, 2009

إمم.. هاي؟

..أتحرش بنفسي بس.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

أحمد

كان لكل مرحلة أغنية.. غالباً لا تحمل أي علاقة بالمرحلة.. لكنها تستثيرني..
ففي مغامرات الطلبة أغان.. وحين عرفتها كانت أوتار الشيخ إمام تعزف في مؤخرة رأسي فكانت مثار دموع وأمل.
واليوم وجدت أغنيتي.. وعدت لشخص فيني نسيته لظروف عديدة لم يكن أي منها متعمداً..
عاد فيني بفرح ذاك الثائر/المثابر/الحالم/العاشق/حليق الرأس دون دعوة.. ابتسمت وأشعلت نيران
أغنيتي وتوقدت.
ولا ينقصني سواك. ليعود الثائر العاشق الأناني فيني... أجمل.

هذا أنا.. فافتحي لي أحضانك وأنت الحب والوطن.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

سكت دهراً

لعيون الجميلتين عالية وشروق:
1- Available or Single: Isn't it the same? Lets say single but not available.
2- Best friend: Turtle.
3- Cake or Pie: Lorenzo's chocolate cheesecake
4- Essential Item: Phone. And recently: recorder, pen, my little notebook, and my laptop.
5- Favorite Color: Blue
6- Gummi bears or Worms: Gummi bears
7- Home town: مشرد
8- Indulgence: هي
9- Jaunuary or February: both
10- Kids: Would love to have them. In fact, this is a good chance to tell you how happy I was when I dreamt the other day that I got a kid. I woke up smiling and sad that it wasn't true.
11- Life: Come again?
12- Marriage: Read #11.
13- Number of sinblings: Amazing sister and an amazing brother that I hate myself for not spending enough time with.
14- Orange or Apple: Grapes.
15- Phobias: Heights, unless I'm behind a window.
16- Favorite Quote: أشوفج أحسن من ما أشوفج.. Anyone cares to complete this wonderful poetic verse?
17- Reason to smile: أيضاً هي
18- Season: No seasons in Kuwait. Back there, I used to love Spring and Fall.
19- Tag three people: No one reads this blog. But if he ever does, NEO.
20- Unknown fact about me: Shyness.
21- Worst habit: You tell me. 3aneed maybe?
22- Your favorite food: كمأ
23- Zodiac: Capricorn.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

عبير

أتتني مسرعة لتقف جانبي.. وكأن ذاك الجمال ينقصه اهتمام.
حدقت بي وصفاء طفولي على وجهها، ونزق يعلو شفتاها.
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على الأرض جلسنا كأن العمر يجمعنا.
كانت الدنيا كلها عبير.
-
****
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أي دنيا تنتظرك؟
مثلك لا يستحق غير سعادة وحب..
وورق وألوان
وألعاب صغار
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أحبو صغيراً في عالمك.. أتجول مندهشاً لروعته.. تنقلني لرسوماتها تريني عوالماً صنعتها.
وقلق أبوي تخفيه سعادتي.. مابك حبيبتي؟
...
كانت عبير الدنيا.
-
****
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على فكرة.. صورتك على حائط مكتبي.. كما وعدتك.
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أين تراك الآن؟
ماذا تفعلين؟
-
****
ستكبرين.. وستضل الحيرة دون سيف يقطعها.
-
لن أرها ثانية.
أبداً.
-

Saturday, October 07, 2006

4:44

كانت تشير للـ4:44 فجراً.
انتهت بي عجلاتي، في "لحظة غريقة بسكون الموسيقى"، ولسبب أجهله، إلى ساحة الإرادة.
كانت لفحات الهواء منعشة بشكل استثنائي وهي تخترق نوافذي في الطريق. وتأسرني نغمات تطهر أذني من سخافات سمعتها طوال الخميس.
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كان أسوداً ساكناً أمامي، وانقشعت هموم/انشغالات/التزامات الدنيا بأسرها.
توقف الزمان، وارتسمت ابتسامة.
تمنيت سيجارة.. خشيت من ذنب المجاهرة.. فأشعلتها.
تمنيت كأساً أيضاً -دون النديم-، لكن ذلك حديث يطول.
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كانت الدنيا غافية.
وكنت أنا، والبحر، والموسيقى. وعمال نظافة يحومون حولي كقطعة سكر.
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رغبت أن أخرج الشمس حينها.. واكتشفت بأنها ستعكر صفو ليلة جميلة.
يمكنها أن تنتظر.
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عدت بحراً.
شاهدتها تشرق من نافذتي على شاطيء هاديء بمصاحبة أوركسترا الكون.
تخيلت ماذا لو لا تشرق الشمس يوماً؟
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نمت طفلاً ليلتها.
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الحين سؤال: "فتش تـ نفتش" مثل "نظهر تـ نسهر"؟
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My face is burning hot. I don't want to get sick.

Monday, October 02, 2006

AAUUGGGHHHH!

صباح الخير

I wrote a long post about "motivation", since I've been demotivated for the past week or so. The post vanished!
I remember ini tefalsaft (wayid I think, bs I was good), and realized at the end of the post ena ma 3indi salfa. Fa you don't need me repeating what I said.

Enba6at chabdi.

Enjoy the rest of your day.

Off topic (as if there is one): I want a cigarette!

تك تك تك تك تك

يقلب بين القنوات السخيفة.. شارد الذهن.
سكون حوله إلا من أصوات السيارات في الخارج. و ضجة الأفكار في رأسه.
ساعته تشير لوقت متأخر، أو هكذا يفترض.
-
. . . . .
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يذكر أول يوم له في المدرسة.. عندما بكى خوفاً عند وداعه ذلك الأمان..
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. . . . .
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يشعر برغبة لبكاء طويل..
.....
تلسعه لفحة الهواء الباردة.
فيبتسم.
.....
يترك قلمه.
يكف عن الكتابة.
-
-

Saturday, September 23, 2006

!الله.. حريم قبل

أيام!

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Mood

Man With His Head Full of Clouds by Dali

Thursday, August 03, 2006

تبا

تباً للعمل
تباً للعاطفة
تباً للهاتف
تباً لأبولهب (وتب؟)
تباً "للنضال"
تباً لإسرائيل.. وتباً لحزب الله
تباً للبحر
تباً للتبغ للكحول للـ..شهوة
تباً للطفولة
تباً للكهولة
تباً للمدونة
تباً للكتابة
للمشاعر
للسفر
تباً.. للمطر
"تباً للمستحيل"
تباً للمنطق
تباً للعقل
تباً لك..
نعم نعم.. لك أنت وأنت تقرأ..
تباً لك
تباً للحب
تباً للأحاديث السخيفة
للأنف الجميل
لزيتون الصباح
لرائحة القهوة
للمشاريع
لهما
للشطانة
للزوايا المنسية
للتقارير السخيفة
للمحاذير
للأخلاق والأدب
لـ"سقارة"
للنبيذ .. مع الثلج
للصين.. بكبرها
للكمنجات
للمشاعر
للغرور
تباً لأنني يوما سأفنى .. وأقول تباً للحظات ضائعة
-
-
تباً لـ "تباً"
-
-
*************
مزاج الصباح

Monday, July 24, 2006

من قلبي سلام

If I can ask you to read only one thing only on my blog, please read this.

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Paradise Lost: Robert Fisk's elegy for Beirut
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Elegant buildings lie in ruins. The heady scent of gardenias gives way to the acrid stench of bombed-out oil installations. And everywhere terrified people are scrambling to get out of a city that seems tragically doomed to chaos and destruction. As Beirut - 'the Paris of the East' - is defiled yet again, Robert Fisk, a resident for 30 years, asks: how much more punishment can it take?
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In the year 551, the magnificent, wealthy city of Berytus - headquarters of the imperial East Mediterranean Roman fleet - was struck by a massive earthquake. In its aftermath, the sea withdrew several miles and the survivors - ancestors of the present-day Lebanese - walked out on the sands to loot the long-sunken merchant ships revealed in front of them.
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That was when a tidal wall higher than a tsunami returned to swamp the city and kill them all. So savagely was the old Beirut damaged that the Emperor Justinian sent gold from Constantinople as compensation to every family left alive.
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Some cities seem forever doomed. When the Crusaders arrived at Beirut on their way to Jerusalem in the 11th century, they slaughtered every man, woman and child in the city. In the First World War, Ottoman Beirut suffered a terrible famine; the Turkish army had commandeered all the grain and the Allied powers blockaded the coast. I still have some ancient postcards I bought here 30 years ago of stick-like children standing in an orphanage, naked and abandoned.
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An American woman living in Beirut in 1916 described how she "passed women and children lying by the roadside with closed eyes and ghastly, pale faces. It was a common thing to find people searching the garbage heaps for orange peel, old bones or other refuse, and eating them greedily when found. Everywhere women could be seen seeking eatable weeds among the grass along the roads..."How does this happen to Beirut? For 30 years, I've watched this place die and then rise from the grave and then die again, its apartment blocks pitted with so many bullets they looked like Irish lace, its people massacring each other.
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I lived here through 15 years of civil war that took 150,000 lives, and two Israeli invasions and years of Israeli bombardments that cost the lives of a further 20,000 of its people. I have seen them armless, legless, headless, knifed, bombed and splashed across the walls of houses. Yet they are a fine, educated, moral people whose generosity amazes every foreigner, whose gentleness puts any Westerner to shame, and whose suffering we almost always ignore.
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They look like us, the people of Beirut. They have light-coloured skin and speak beautiful English and French. They travel the world. Their women are gorgeous and their food exquisite. But what are we saying of their fate today as the Israelis - in some of their cruellest attacks on this city and the surrounding countryside - tear them from their homes, bomb them on river bridges, cut them off from food and water and electricity? We say that they started this latest war, and we compare their appalling casualties - 240 in all of Lebanon by last night - with Israel's 24 dead, as if the figures are the same.
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And then, most disgraceful of all, we leave the Lebanese to their fate like a diseased people and spend our time evacuating our precious foreigners while tut-tutting about Israel's "disproportionate" response to the capture of its soldiers by Hizbollah.
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I walked through the deserted city centre of Beirut yesterday and it reminded more than ever of a film lot, a place of dreams too beautiful to last, a phoenix from the ashes of civil war whose plumage was so brightly coloured that it blinded its own people. This part of the city- once a Dresden of ruins - was rebuilt by Rafiq Hariri, the prime minister who was murdered scarcely a mile away on 14 February last year.
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The wreckage of that bomb blast, an awful precursor to the present war in which his inheritance is being vandalised by the Israelis, still stands beside the Mediterranean, waiting for the last UN investigator to look for clues to the assassination - an investigator who has long agoabandoned this besieged city for the safety of Cyprus.
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At the empty Etoile restaurant - best snails and cappuccino in Beirut, where Hariri once dined Jacques Chirac - I sat on the pavement and watched the parliamentary guard still patrolling the façade of the French-built emporium that houses what is left of Lebanon's democracy. So many of these streets were built by Parisians under the French mandate and they have been exquisitely restored, their mock Arabian doorways bejewelled with marble Roman columns dug from the ancient Via Maxima a few metres away.
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Hariri loved this place and, taking Chirac for a beer one day, he caught sight of me sitting at a table. "Ah Robert, come over here," he roared and then turned to Chirac like a cat that was about to eat a canary. "I want to introduce you, Jacques, to the reporter who said I couldn'trebuild Beirut!"
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And now it is being un-built. The Martyr Rafiq Hariri International Airport has been attacked three times by the Israelis, its glistening halls and shopping malls vibrating to the missiles that thunder into the runways and fuel depots. Hariri's wonderful transnational highway viaduct has been broken by Israeli bombers. Most of his motorway bridges have been destroyed. The Roman-style lighthouse has been smashed by a missile from an Apache helicopter. Only this small jewel of a restaurant in the centre of Beirut has been spared. So far.
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It is the slums of Haret Hreik and Ghobeiri and Shiyah that have been levelled and "rubble-ised" and pounded to dust, sending a quarter of a million Shia Muslims to seek sanctuary in schools and abandoned parks across the city. Here, indeed, was the headquarters of Hizbollah,another of those "centres of world terror" which the West keeps discovering in Muslim lands. Here lived Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, the Party of God's leader, a ruthless, caustic, calculating man; and Sayad Mohamed Fadlallah, among the wisest and most eloquent of clerics; andmany of Hizbollah's top military planners - including, no doubt, the men who planned over many months the capture of the two Israeli soldiers last Wednesday.
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But did the tens of thousands of poor who live here deserve this act of mass punishment? For a country that boasts of its pin-point accuracy - a doubtful notion in any case, but that's not the issue - what does this act of destruction tell us about Israel? Or about ourselves?
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In a modern building in an undamaged part of Beirut, I come, quite by chance, across a well known and prominent Hizbollah figure, open-neck white shirt, dark suit, clean shoes. "We will go on if we have to for days or weeks or months or..." And he counts these awful statistics offon the fingers of his left hand. "Believe me, we have bigger surprises still to come for the Israelis - much bigger, you will see. Then we will get our prisoners and it will take just a few small concessions."I walk outside, feeling as if I have been beaten over the head. Over the wall opposite there is purple bougainvillaea and white jasmine and a swamp of gardenias. The Lebanese love flowers, their colour and scent, and Beirut is draped in trees and bushes that smell like paradise.
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As for the huddled masses from the powder of the bombed-out southern slums of Haret Hreik, I found hundreds of them yesterday, sitting under trees and lying on the parched grass beside an ancient fountain donated to the city of Beirut by the Ottoman Sultan Abdul-Hamid. How empires fall.
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Far away, across the Mediterranean, two American helicopters from the USS Iwo Jima could be seen, heading through the mist and smoke towards the US embassy bunker complex at Awkar to evacuate more citizens of the American Empire. There was not a word from that same empire to help the people lying in the park, to offer them food or medical aid.
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And across them all has spread a dark grey smoke that works its way through the entire city, the fires of oil terminals and burning buildings turning into a cocktail of sulphurous air that moves below our doors and through our windows. I smell it when I wake in the morning. Half the people of Beirut are coughing in this filth, breathing their own destruction as they contemplate their dead.
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The anger that any human soul should feel at such suffering and loss was expressed so well by Lebanon's greatest poet, the mystic Khalil Gibran, when he wrote of the half million Lebanese who died in the 1916 famine, most of them residents of Beirut:
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My people died of hunger, and he who
Did not perish from starvation was
Butchered with the sword;
They perished from hunger
In a land rich with milk and honey.
They died because the vipers and
Sons of vipers spat out poison into
The space where the Holy Cedars and
The roses and the jasmine breathe
Their fragrance.
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And the sword continues to cut its way through Beirut. When part of an aircraft - perhaps the wing-tip of an F-16 hit by a missile, although the Israelis deny this - came streaking out of the sky over the eastern suburbs at the weekend, I raced to the scene to find a partly decapitated driver in his car and three Lebanese soldiers from the army's logistics unit. These are the tough, brave non-combat soldiers of Kfar Chim, who have been mending power and water lines these past six days to keep Beirut alive.
-
I knew one of them. "Hello Robert, be quick because I think the Israelis will bomb again but we'll show you everything we can." And they took me through the fires to show me what they could of the wreckage, standing around me to protect me.
-
And a few hours later, the Israelis did come back, as the men of the small logistics unit were going to bed, and they bombed the barracks and killed 10 soldiers, including those three kind men who looked after me amid the fires of Kfar Chim.
-
And why? Be sure - the Israelis know what they are hitting. That's why they killed nine soldiers near Tripoli when they bombed the military radio antennas. But a logistics unit? Men whose sole job was to mend electricity lines? And then it dawns on me. Beirut is to die. It is to be starved of electricity now that the power station in Jiyeh is on fire. No one is to be allowed to keep Beirut alive. So those poor men had to be liquidated.
-
Beirutis are tough people and are not easily moved. But at the end of last week, many of them were overcome by a photograph in their daily papers of a small girl, discarded like a broken flower in a field near Ter Harfa, her feet curled up, her hand resting on her torn bluepyjamas, her eyes - beneath long, soft hair - closed, turned away from the camera. She had been another "terrorist" target of Israel and several people, myself among them, saw a frightening similarity between this picture and the photograph of a Polish girl lying dead in a fieldbeside her weeping sister in 1939.
-
I go home and flick through my files, old pictures of the Israeli invasion of 1982. There are more photographs of dead children, of broken bridges. "Israelis Threaten to Storm Beirut", says one headline. "Israelis Retaliate". "Lebanon At War". "Beirut Under Siege". "Massacre at Sabra and Chatila".
-
Yes, how easily we forget these earlier slaughters. Up to 1,700 Palestinians were butchered at Sabra and Chatila by Israel's proxy Christian militia allies in September of 1982 while Israeli troops - as they later testified to Israel's own court of inquiry - watched the killings. I was there. I stopped counting the corpses when I reached 100. Many of the women had been raped before being knifed or shot.
-
Yet when I was fleeing the bombing of Ghobeiri with my driver Abed last week, we swept right past the entrance of the camp, the very spot where I saw the first murdered Palestinians. And we did not think of them. We did not remember them. They were dead in Beirut and we were trying to stay alive in Beirut, as I have been trying to stay alive here for 30 years.
-
I am back on the sea coast when my mobile phone rings. It is an Israeli woman calling me from the United States, the author of a fine novel about the Palestinians. "Robert, please take care," she says. "I am so, so sorry about what is being done to the Lebanese. It is unforgivable. I pray for the Lebanese people, and the Palestinians, and the Israelis." I thank her for her thoughtfulness and the graceful, generous way she condemned this slaughter.
-
Then, on my balcony - a glance to check the location of the Israeli gunboat far out in the sea-smog - I find older clippings. This is from an English paper in 1840, when Beirut was a great Ottoman city. "Beyrouth" was the dateline. "Anarchy is now the order of the day, our properties and personal safety are endangered, no satisfaction can be obtained, and crimes are committed with impunity. Several Europeans have quitted their houses and suspended their affairs, in order to find protection in more peaceable countries."
-
On my dining-room wall, I remember, there is a hand-painted lithograph of French troops arriving in Beirut in 1842 to protect the Christian Maronites from the Druze. They are camping in the Jardin des Pins, which will later become the site of the French embassy where, only a few hours ago, I saw French men and women registering for their evacuation. And outside the window, I hear again the whisper of Israeli jets, hidden behind the smoke that now drifts 20 miles out to sea.
-
Fairouz, the most popular of Lebanese singers, was to have performed at this year's Baalbek festival, cancelled now like all Lebanon's festivals of music, dance, theatre and painting. One of her most popular songs is dedicated to her native city:
-
To Beirut - peace to Beirut with all my heart
And kisses - to the sea and clouds,
To the rock of a city that looks like an old sailor's face.
From the soul of her people she makes wine,
From their sweat, she makes bread and jasmine.
So how did it come to taste of smoke and fire?
-
***
-
-
* Robert Fisk is one of the (if not THE) best western writers on Middle Eastern affairs. This article was published on July 19th 2006 in The Independent.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

لازلنا نبيها

وتنهال التبريكات من كل حدب وصوب.. إلا مباركتها فقد كانت مختلفة رغم تشابه حروفها مع الآخرين..
قالت "you guys did it".. ولم نفعل شيئاً..
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في تاريخ الشعوب قامت ثورات.. وتحققت ثروات.. غزى نابليون لأنه قصير القامة.. وبعده هتلر لأنه يعاني ضعفاً جنسياً.. أو هكذا يقولون..
بلغ كلاهما المجد.. لكن نابوليون لم تطل قامته.. ولا استفحل هتلر..
في تاريخ الشعوب سحقت حركات.. وعذب شباب.. أحبط بعضهم.. وواصل البقية نضالهم.. لوحدهم!
وفي تاريخ الكويت.. سيكتب أن الشباب اتشح البرتقالي.. وأرادها خمس..
وتحققت الخمس..
وتحققت إرادة الشعب..
إلا أن بين هذه الحشود يجلس شاب... -هو أيضاً- أرادها خمس.. حليق الرأس... ذو ذقن عادة ما يهمل حلاقته لأنه يعتقد أن لا وقت لديه..
كانوا يهتفون من حوله بأنهم "يبونها".. وهو أيضاً "يبيها".. ليس لأنه كهتلر أو نابليون.. بل لأنه أحبها..
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تحققت إرادة الشعب.. ولم تتحقق إرادته..
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هم نبيها.. سام!

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Yeah.. Happy Valentine..


Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Two Weeks in Review

دوام... شارع زايد.. زحمة..ـ
Angels and Demons ...
درب... شبيهة فانيسا... ممرضات إيرلنديات... ليلتي... هيلتون... طردة... مجرى السيل... التحلية... الكورنيش... بيبلوس... "الكباين".. King Edward... (..) بالطريق الصحراوي... دقلة... الكويتية.. تلفوني الضايع ... أمي ... ورد... مطار... بلبل... زفة... رقص... قهوة.. مجلس ... تشفط... شرق... خياط... تلفون... Burger Boutique... سفر... "الحركة" (وع)... دوام... David... Esaias... خالد الشيخ... نانسي معماري... SMS with Mobi... محمد... مكالمات... الكراديب... الحمراء... بنات لبنان... Buddha Bar... فراطة... حسين... جورج... خديها يا شيخة... اللاونج الخايس... السطح... الشيخ (...)... الشباب... Cassino... فادي... نوم... Julia’s... "مجمع الفردان"... مروان... 175... حديقة ... بنات لبنان مرة ثانية... Champaign... سرسق... ناصر (شخباري)... البحرينية على طيارة بوسطن (أو ظننتها بحرينية)... النافورة... قلاصات... ألعاب نارية (ماني فاهم على شنو هالكثر مستانسين)... Matisse... فصيل (هم شخباري)... الكبوس... شدراهم؟؟ ... زعتر... وزيت... العنبري... (طـ) و (ب)... الوالد وشكلي اللي يفشل بالكبوس... أيام أمريكا... الرملة البيضة... حزب الله...MC Cola... الصدر... طريق المطار... الكراديب ... ناصر... زحمة... شارع زايد... دوام...ـ

Welcome to two thousand and six

Sunday, November 27, 2005

الله يا ميامي


مبروك للوحدة
ياريتني معاكم

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

معلومات عامة

Dom Perignon is the prestige cuvée of the giant Moët et Chandon Champagne house. It is named after the famous monk, who was the most important early influence in the development of Champagne into the sparkling wine we know today. It was not the first Champagne to use his name, as early in the last century small proprietaire-recoltants (farmer-growers) at Hautvillers, employed it for their wine. Unfortunately for them they did not register the name, Dom Perignon, as a trademark.

Sometime around the late 1920's, Champagne Moët et Chandon adopted his name for their new luxury or prestige cuvée of Champagne. Helped in part by Hollywood glamour, this extremely well marketed brand has developed a widespread reputation in countries across the globe. In most vintages it has proved to be considerably above average in quality and is in huge demand. Its 1990 vintage is generally admired as an exceptional Champagne.

The distribution philosophy for Dom Perignon seems to have changed a great deal over the years. Patrick Forbes, a director of the UK importers of Dom Perignon, wrote of the blend, in his outstanding book 'CHAMPAGNE' in 1967, "It always has been and always will be in very short supply". Yet nowadays one can find it quite easily in cities all over the world.

It has been an onerous task to acquire information about Dom Perignon, as key enquiries have brought no response. We believe that Moët et Chandon has declared a vintage for Dom Perignon in the years 1959-1995, but are open to correction. Alongside the vintages, where available, are auction or stockist prices, researched in the second half of 1999.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

مبروك

منذ فترة ليست بقصيرة أعيش فراغ عاطفي رهيب.. حاولت أن أشغل نفسي بالعمل أو الدراسة.. اعتقدت أني عديت المرحلة وبديت أتأقلم مع نفسي بروحنا..
وتمضي بنا الأيام (أنا ونفسي) ونرجع الكويت.. وعلى الرغم من المغريات الكثيرة لشغل وقت الفراغ (ترى مو صج.. بس اشتهيت أقول "مغريات كثيرة").. الفراغ -كما أذكر في كل موضوع- قاتل.. رغم أني أحاول ملئه بأمور تافهة.. لكني يوماً بعد يوم أستوعب أنه لست أنا.. فأنا أتصرف كعودتي في الإجازات أيام الدراسة.. كل يوم طلعة ولوية.. وليومين أعيش مرحلة بيتوتية.. لكن ماكو فايدة!
نرجع لموضوع الفراغ العاطفي.. أعتقد أنه لا يحس به إلا من مر بتجربة حب.. ولم تكتمل لضروف ما.. الإحساس بوجود شخص آخر في هذه الدنيا يفكر بك.. تهمه ويهمك (غير أهلك) .. إحساس لا يضاهيه شيء.. "فزة القلب" عندما تتذكر ذلك الآخر .. عجيبة! لكن شائت أقداري أن ترميني على نفسي.. اللي مليت منها لأنها كثيرة التحلطم..
أقول هذا بمناسبة زواج حبيبتي التي كانت.. ولازال فيني شيء يحن لها.. أو على الأقل -حسب اعتقادي- يحن لوجود ذلك الشخص.. الـ Significant Other على قولة الأمريكان.. قد أحن للتجربة أكثر من حنيني للشخص.. لكن يمكن الشخص هو من جعل تلك التجربة بتلك الجمال..
لا أدري..
حبيبتي.. اغرسي آخر خناجرك في جسدي..
قلتها لي حين افترقنا.. وأقولها لك الآن.. أتمنى لك حياة جميلة..
مبروك..

Thursday, September 08, 2005

يازين أمريكا

العيشة هني مضيعة وقت.. اليوم ما داومت الصبح كان عندي كم شغلة قلت أخلصهم بالبنك..
شوفوا يا جماعة.. الوطني بنك سيء.. لكنه أفضل السيئين..وهذا من واقع خبرة بالتعامل عبر القارات أيام أمريكا..
لكن يبطون الجبد! كل معاملات الفرع من نوعية "وين إذنك يا جحا".. وفرع الجابرية يحاولون يسوونه شرح بس ماكو فايدة.. نطرت ساعة ونصف بالضبط إلى أن طلع رقمي.. قلت إن شاءالله وفاء تطلعلي.. ووفاء طلعت العصر بس.. وفاء لبنانية حبوبة، ومن محاسن الصدف أنها كانت تعيش بأمريكا وولدها الآن يدرس في بوسطن اللي توني راد منها، فقعدنا نسولف عن بوسطن وحلاوتها.. وتخلص الشغل يحليلها.. وتدورلك حلول لأي مشاكل..
اليوم بعد الساعة والنصف من الإنتظار، ما مشى شغلي لضروف إجرائية غبية..
ذاك اليوم نفس الشي مع جهاز إعادة هيكلة القوى العاملة.. اللي أنا منها المفروض ويفترض أنهم يهيكلوني.. بطء في العمل آخر شيء تتوقف على ورقة سخيفة وترجع دوامك متأخر خالي الوفاض (الساعة 3 رجعت الدوام طبعاً بعد غداء مع الربع اللي كاشتين بدواماتهم).. والوقت يضيع وعادي.. مع أن الناس بالشوارع دايماً مستعيلين ويتركون..
ترى ما عندي سالفة بس ودي أتحلطم على أحد..
يازين أمريكا، كل شغلك بالتليفون وانت خالص.. الغريب في الطلبات هني.. أن كل شيء يبون منه 3!! مادري ليش.. 3 صور جنسية.. ليش بالله! يعني بيصيدون كذبتي؟ والا وحدة بتختلف عن الثانية! 3 صور من عقد العمل.. 3 كتب من التأمينات..
يالله..
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اليوم مسافر دبي.. مع شلة ربعي القدامى.. أيام المدرسة.. مع الدراسة في الخارج تكتشف الكثير من الإختلافات بينك وبين أصدقاء الماضي.. فأنت تتطور لكن هم لا يزالون على نفس تفكيرهم لما تركتهم.. ونفس سوالفهم.. أنا من طبعي ما أحب أقطع أحد.. فالتواصل كان دوماً موجود.. واليوم دبي! يالله تغيير جو (اللي يسمع رايح جبال الألب).. بس هي فرصة نشوف الكويتيين شيخربطون بدبي وشيحبون فيها..
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اليوم في طريقي للعمل بعد معاناة الوطني.. اضطريت إني أطوف على منطقة الرقة.. مع العلم إن دوامي مو هناك.. بالعكس بمكان حلو.. لكن الدرب.. المهم.. شفت منظر يضحك ويثير الشفقة.. وانيت محمل خروفين.. يمكن المشهد عادي بس ما أدري ليش ضحكت.. صورتهم.. على ما أتعلم شلون أشبك التلفون على الكمبيوتر.. ترقبوا الصورة P:
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السوالف بالكويت وين ما تروح.. أسهم وبورصة.. وللأسف اختربت وصرت مثلهم.. قمت أسولف عنها.. والله وناسة.. على الأقل ليما نلقالنا شي نفهم فيه..
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بالنهاية..
أنا الحين في العمل.. لا شغلة ولا مشغلة.. اللي كاره عمري صارلي شهر.. أحس أني إنسان عديم الفائدة.. ولا أحب هذا الإحساس..
أحس أني لا أحقق ذاتي وغير سعيد..
قالت لي أمي "منو أول ما يشتغل محقق ذاته وسعيد.. لازم تكون البداية بهالشكل".. وكذلك قال لي بعض الأصدقاء..
لكن أنا أقول إن كان التغيير بيدي.. لماذا لا أغير؟!
لاعت جبدي..
هنالك مشروع نعمل عليه أنا وبعض الأصدقاء.. إن شاء الله يمشي.. لأنه بالضبط ما أريد.. على الأقل يحسسني أني أقدم شيء.. وأحبه..
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عندي صديقة أحبها حب غير طبيعي..
وأحس أني مقصر تجاهها.. وصاير ما أستحي على ويهي.. ما أسأل ولا شي.. مع العلم إنها على طول على بالي.. خاصة هالأيام تارس ال iPod أغاني.. وأدري تستانس على وايد منهم..
Bo 3illiy if u ever read this.. I love u baby
:*
لازم تسمعين أغنية "يابو شعر فلة" هاب فيها هاليومين مع أغنية "وايد وايد" لمصطفى أحمد!
فتكم بعافية.. نراكم بعد دبي ;)

Monday, August 22, 2005

نعود لنسود

مع العودة للوطن سالمين غانمين (منذ شهر تقريباً) وانقطاع قسري عن عالم المدونات أعود مرة أخرى، رغم أني كنت أظن -في وقت ما- أن عملي والتزاماتي الأخرى ستأخذني من عالم المدونات لأكون متابعاً أكثر من مشارك.. لكن.. تتوالى الصدمات في دار النشاما .. حدتنا فراغة الدوام لمعاودة الكتابة.. صراحة ولهان على الكل.. بالأخص أحبائي شلة ساحة الصفاة وشروق و كيو وزيدون وبومريوم و فتاة نيويورك ومتعة قراءة كتابات نانونانو وجلي بلي.. و.. وايد ترى تعبت .. نقول كافة الحبايب المدونين
على العموم.. راح تكون المدونة مكان للتنفيس اليومي -إن أمكن- وانطباعات عن الكويت من شخص عاش خارجها لفترة طويلة وعاد ليستقر بها..
جد جد حدي مستانس اللي رديت لمدونتي هاهاها!!
نراكم

Thursday, June 30, 2005

A Temporary Matter

A wonderful short story from Jhumpa Lahiri's book "Interpreter of Maladies".

Enjoy!

Monday, June 27, 2005

A Persian Rug

The whole world was silent for a moment. Ali couldn’t hear anything for a minute until his mother’s weeping suddenly broke into his ears. There was the old man, lying peacefully in his bed, looking pale as he has never seen him before. Ali knew that that would be the last time he’d see his father. Ali, who was a lonely child, did not cry. All of a sudden he was not able to bring tears to his eyes. He was shocked more than being sad. He recalled the first memory of his father, smiling in his face and playing with him. He remembered how his father taught him how to plant “romman” –pomegranate- at an early age; he even remembered how his father got angry if Ali wouldn’t eat all the seeds. He told him there’s always one seed in the romman that gets a person into heaven when they eat it. From that day on, Ali loved eating romman every day; he saw it as a short cut to heaven and gave him comfort when his father got angry because Ali didn’t do his daily prayers. He recalled the first time his father has beaten him when he took a nap under a tree instead of working on the field. All these memories flashed before his eyes as he stood in front of the body of his dead father.

Ali knows that it’s been hard for his family lately to manage their lives, his father’s death only made it worse. The drought has affected their land severely, and is now moving to neighboring towns. His village is empty, everyone left to places where they can earn a living. Ali doesn’t know what to do, he suddenly found himself, at the age of 11, in the position of responsibility towards his pregnant mother and widowed aunt.

It was a cold afternoon in March in Sangeel, a village in the outskirts of Shiraz in Iran. Ali was sitting outside his house, like any other day lately. Ali remembers how just two years ago, he and his father would plant the seeds for the following season’s crops. A woman walked out of the house, he knew she was the wife of Mr. Ismael, his father’s friend. Ali’s mother called his name, her voice sounded urgent. Ali walked into the house, an old one floor house made of red clay that somehow over time began to look grey. His mother was sitting on the floor in the corner of the living room with his aunt whispering something, as his mother saw him, she looked ready to tell him something. Although he couldn’t think of anything that would have his mother look so anxious to tell, Ali feared what she was about to say even before knowing what it was. He wanted to escape the pressure and avoided eye contact with her immediately. He tried to look unworried, and went to the other corner of the room to the clay container where water was stored to keep it cold. He took a sip of water even though he wasn’t thirsty; he did it just to get him self some more time before knowing what he thought was troubling news. His mother called again, thinking that he didn’t hear her before, “Ali come my darling,” she said trying to comfort him. The room was very dark but from a ray of light coming from the window beside his mother. His aunt was giving him looks of sympathy that he didn’t understand.


“Ismael’s wife was just here,” His mother said, and continued “you’re uncle Ismael wants to talk to you tonight. I told her you will go see him after the night prayer,” She concluded authoritatively.


“What is it about?” Ali asked.

“Don’t worry my dear; it’s only for the best of you and all of us. It will be the start of something good.” His aunt Khadija said with a smile.


That night, Ali felt an urge to perform the Esha –night- prayer. Maybe because it was what his father always wanted to see him do, be a good Muslim, but probably to kill time, especially that his mother always told him about the comfort of prayer. He needed the comfort before going to meet uncle Ismael. He never liked someone to tell him that they want them with something, because all it does is make him worry until that meeting. During prayer, the thought of possibilities couldn’t escape him, only he didn’t know what the possibilities are. Finally, the time came; he left their house for uncle Ismael’s house. It was a 5 minute walk, he tried to think about silly things on the way; where do falling stars go? Where does this small stream end?


As he arrived, he saw that a torch was on in the men’s lounge which was a separate part of the house. Ismael’s family was better off than Ali’s, they had a bigger house and many torches to light all the rooms at once. Ali’s house had only two torches, two bedrooms and a small living room part of which was a kitchen with a ground stove and a couple of pans. Ali entered the room, taking his shoes off outside. The room was filled with light as if it was morning. Uncle Ismael was sitting at the head of the room on the floor cushions that surrounded the room. Six other men were sitting having small conversations around the room. He didn’t recognize any of them. “Al Salam Alaikom,” Ali said in a loud voice that still sounded childish. Uncle Ismael looked at him with a wide smile as he walked through the long room, he pointed to Ali to sit next to him. Ali leaned forward and kissed uncle Ismael on his head and sat beside him. Ismael carried on with a conversation with the man next to him, while Ali started scanning the room around him. The walls were decorated with Persian rugs and some paintings; he smiled remembering how their house’s walls are decorated with cracks and stains. He looked closely at the Persian rug on the wall, it was beautiful and colorful. It showed a golden lion with people surrounding it. He remembered what his father told him about the Persian rugs, they’re the finest in the world and the rug gets better the more people step on it.


Finishing his conversation, uncle Ismael turned to him with a smile and poured minted tea into a cup next to him and handed it to Ali. After asking about his family, Ismael proceeded to say, “My son, I called you here to offer you help. I know you and aunt and mother are living a hard life, especially now with your father gone. It was hard enough for him... I can understand how you now can’t bear to live here.”


Uncle Ismael’s words were somewhat comforting to Ali, but he couldn’t see where he’s going. And just like what his father told him to do when older people talked, Ali listened. “I promised your father that I would take care of you and your mother, and I’m doing my duty towards him in front of god. I have arranged for you and your mother and aunt to move to Bushehr, it’s an area down by the sea. There’s a Bandar –port- in this area and I have talked to some people that are going to take care of you and get you on a boat. The boat will take you to across the sea to Koveit.” Ali didn’t want to hear the rest, and although uncle Ismael was talking, Ali this time was not listening. How can I move to another place? Why?! What is this Koveit?! He simply is not willing to go anywhere.


“Are you with me my son?” Uncle Ismael said when he noticed that Ali was drifting away with his thoughts. Ali gave his attention back to Ismael who continued, “As I said, it is a new country where one can make a decent living. Many of my relatives have gone there and many of the people in Sangeel too. I’m sending a letter with you to my cousin and he will take care of you and find you a job. Go there, and earn a living and one day you will come back here. It’s getting very hard to live here in Iran. This is the best thing for all of you.”


“But uncle, I have never been anywhere! How can I travel and leave our home? I don’t know what Koveit is!” Ali said with a very worried look. He looked even more worried than at his father’s funeral where Ismael last saw him.


“My son, this is all for the best. You don’t want your pregnant mother to have her child live a life here. There is no future here. I’m also thinking of moving, and might join you there soon. As for Koveit, I’m getting very good news from our relatives and friends there. They struggle with the language at first, because beyond that sea they’re all Arabs, but there’s a decent living. Go there
and make money then decide if you want to come back or not, it will only be for a short while at least until things get better here. Arrangements have been made, and you will leave to Bushehr in 5 days.”


It seemed inevitable to Ali, especially when he went back to his house and saw his mother and aunt. They agreed with what uncle Ismael offered, and told Ali that it would be for the best of everyone and that there’s nothing to loose anymore with the worsening conditions in Iran.

۩۩۩

The sea was spectacular. Ali has never seen that much water in one place. He remembered the old stream next to his house and asking where it ended. He also hasn’t seen that many people in one place. He remembered when his father once took him to Shiraz. It was huge with many people but not as much as here. The port was crowded with people moving in all directions, many shouting and yelling. Many were speaking a language he never heard before. He realized then that it was a different Iranian dialect than what they use in Sangeel and Shiraz. He seemed like a kid among giants. All the men around him had a strong build. He kept his mother and aunt waiting for him on a corner, while he went to ask about their ship.


As he turned the corner, he realized what a port is. He saw all the ships and dhows packed next to each other on the port’s dock. He stood for a second absorbing the enormity of the scene. It was a different world than what he had known. He suddenly felt excited, but the fear overwhelmed the excitement. He wanted to be back in Sangeel listening to his father’s stories over his mother’s cooked hot dinner about the legends that built this country. But he had to face the new reality. He walked to a group of men sitting at a table playing with dice a game he doesn’t understand. He didn’t want to distract them from what they’re doing, so he just stared at them from a close distance hoping to gain their attention. It didn’t take long for the bald man among them to stare back at Ali. He said something in a weird language. From the man’s tone Ali understood that he was asking him a question, but couldn’t really understand what he was saying. He quickly gave the man a piece of paper he was holding that had the name of the boat they were supposed to travel on. Recognizing the language Ali speaks, the man talked to him in that language and pointed to a dhow parked at the dock. Ali thanked the man and went back to his mother and aunt.


In front of the huge dhow stood two wooden walkways that lead to the main deck, people where rushing in and out of the ship carrying boxes and bags that were on the dock on their way in. A huge man was standing on the main deck talking to some men and seemed to be giving instructions. He was wearing a white shirt half buttoned, he looked overweight, and the white shirt appeared to be from his younger days along with the short black pants. He wore a black beret hat that had some writing in the front and carried a red handkerchief in his hands. His face was huge, almost non human with a short beard that had not been shaved for a couple of days. As soon as the man saw Ali and his company, he shouted to one of the men in a language that Ali understood, “I told you, women and children from the back.” The skinny man looked troubled and hurried towards Ali. He told him to get in the boat through the rear walkway. Ali followed his instructions. The walkway looked dangerous; it had no handles so any tiny shake would mean that he will fall in the water. The man on the deck told the women to get in first, they did quickly. Ali followed them. He walked slowly and kept looking down despite the man telling him not to do so. Ali knew that he did not know how to swim, and feared falling in the water beneath him. The man reached his hand to pull Ali and he did. His hand was not soft. The hand reminded Ali of his father’s rough hands. The man told Ali to go to a corner where other women, children, and some men were sitting. There were about twenty of them.


Ali gave the paper he had to the man that pulled him onto the deck. The man quickly went and showed the paper to the huge man that looked to be in charge. The huge man kept the paper in his hands and went towards Ali who wasn’t standing with the rest of the travelers, while his mother and aunt made themselves pretty comfortable and even started talking with others from what Ali saw. As he got closer to Ali, the huge man smiled showing his unorganized set of teeth. They looked rotten. Ali wondered why a man that lives by the large sea wouldn’t use some of its water to clean his teeth.


“So, you know Ismael?” The huge man asked Ali who nodded in agreement. “Don’t worry young man, you will be fine. We’ll take care of each other until we reach the other side of this sea.”


Ali felt some comfort. At least he was beginning his new journey with someone that knew who he was and where he came from.


As the boat pulled away, Ali saw Iran getting smaller and further away. He also saw the sea seeming even more never ending. His mother was talking with his aunt and another lady that he didn’t recognize. They were smiling and he was glad that they were. He looked back at the port and Iran as a whole, he felt as if he left part of his heart in there. He wondered whether he had also left the problems and sorrow he and his family were facing. He was hoping that he was traveling to a better place. The sky was clear blue with some scattered clouds, and the sea
looked fearful and peaceful at the same time.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

..

Nothing to say
Its just that the nice morning is over..
Hopefully this weekend will be a lot of fun

Saturday, May 21, 2005

صباح الخير

أهملت الأفكار التي تداهمني في كل لحظة في هذا الصباح الجميل.. أفكار تذكرني بواجباتي.. لن أكمل .. لا أريد تعكير مزاجي.. ـ
نوافذي تطل على حديقة صغيرة جميلة جداً.. والجو مشمس.. وشجرة طالما أحببتها تطل علي..
كتبت جمل ومسحت، لا أريد أن أفكر بماذا أكتب.. أريد أن أستمتع بالصباح الجميل مع فيروز
لا أدري لماذا استيقضت وأنا أسمع -أو خيل لي- راجعين يا هوى.. ومنها بدأت رحلة الصباح مع فيروز
Enjoy ur day :)