By Frog Child: الفنانون هم قرود الدولة البوروجوازية . طفلة الفراشة

إن

الفوتجرافيا

تولد

من / في

كوكايين

اللقطة

التي يدمر

بها / فيها

/ الطفل /

– زب إله الصنعة –

Gilles Roudière, from “What Are These Mountains Dreaming About?”. Source: lensculture.com

مُهداة لنورا نجّاي ومهدي بن عيسى ورياض حرتوف ولكل ضحايا الدكتاتورية.

.

عندي ٤٧ سنة

أذنان كبيرتان

عينان ضعيفتا البصر

لحية ثلاثة أيام

بداية صلع

معطف دودون برتقالي

طفولة صعبة

بلد متعب

وحلم عنيد.

أملك شقة بثلاث غرف في باب الواد

(مُشتراة بالتقسيط)

مركبة سياحية

(هكذا نسمّي السيارة في الضرائب؟)

بعض الانفعالات العصبية

جيران طيبون

عشيقة، الكتابة (ليس عندي أفكار قصيرة)

ومخطوطات لا زالت في المرسى

أزمات قولون فظيعة

وشخصية صعبة.

***

أملك أيضًا: – نظرة مثالية للعدالة

(موروثة عن والدي)

جسمٌ طري

يوتوبيا في حالة جيدة

علبة أقلام جافة

وعندي أيضا البكالوريا (بل اثنتان، بكالورياتان، رياضيات وآداب)

رأي

كرامة

عشرات السراويل

القليل من الفكاهة

عُصابات كثيرة

مكبوتات، مقلقات

فانتازمات

آيباد

عَلمْ

نظارتان

وحلمٌ عنيد.

***

عندي آلة كتابة قديمة

وأنا جدّ متعلق بها

(ماركة japy، سنة 1985)

لابتوب صنع في الصين

وخسارات من صنعي أنا

ثلاث حقائب ظهر

كيس نوم

ومزاج مهلهل

مسامير في الأرجل

وقليل من الشجاعة

***

عندي ندبةٌ لا تُمحى على الجبين

(أوتوغراف جلدي من سنوات شبابي الملتهبة)

صندوق أدوات

بعض الأوهام

مئة مجاز

١٠٠ ملغ من الأمل

صداع رهيب

وحلم عنيد.

***

عندي مجموعة صغيرة لأسطوانات الفينيل

دمامل في الساق

تزرّقات في الروح

شهية عصفور

وذاكرة ممتازة.

***

عندي ثلاثة أزواج من الأحذية

٢٠ كلغ زائدة

قليل من الطموح

(يعني، كمية جد قليلة)

ساقان سخيتفان

دشرة

دويرة صغيرة في منطقة القبائل

بداية مرض السكري

شباب مهلهل

و CV مليء بالفشل

(مثل قدري)

***

عندي غثيانات

عشرات قبعات “بوب” بألوان مختلفة

معارك خاسرة

جوارب مثقوبة

وبعض القصائد بجودة غير متساوية

وحوالي ٥٠٠٠ ليفر* (ليس الاسترليني، بل الكٌتب)

وصور عائلية قديمة

سكين سويسري

كوفية فلسطينية

كرافات (واحدة)

وعشر عُقد.

***

أملك حسابا في البنك بسبعة ملايين

(سنتيم، سنتيم، وبالعملة الوطنية)

مُدّخرات

ذكريات

سخافات

غراميات متحجرة

أنبوبي معجون أسنان

(كولغايت لزوجتي، أكوافريش لي)

شمسا وقحة

سماء كئيبة

جواز سفر

عشر هويات

ألف ندامة

جراحا، بعضها نرجسي، والبعض الآخر غير خطير

بطاقة ناخب

بطاقة ‘الشفاء“

مشروع مجتمع

رئيسا ممدودْ

أفقا مسدودْ

ولا أي عُذر

***

هذا تقريبا كل شيء.

***

ملحوظة: آه! ثم، عندي هذا

هذا الشيء الصغير

حريتي.

ترجمه عن الفرنسية: صلاح باديس

تعالي يا فرحة أيامي

شاهديني أجري

لقد اشتريت حذاء أبيض

وجناحي نسر شفافين

أنا فم الكلارينيت

وأنت العازف المفدى

اركعي والقميني

ضعي طعم البحر في حلقي

واجعلي في صدري موجة

تبذر الشمس فوق عُرفها جواهر

الحسي خلف أذني

وأنت تدفعينني برفق فوق حز الرصيف

سترينني أطوي الأسفلت أسرع وأعلى

حتى أخف وأصير حمامة

وعندما أتحول إلى بقعة في الأفق

قولي لي إن الحياة تبدأ في الأربعين

ذكريني بالسنين الآتية

انزعي عني الملابس المعرّقة

حمميني وغناؤك يتكسر

على أنغام الماء الساخن

ارسمي حول وجهي المغبش في بخار المرايا

قلبا يبرق في الضوء

في الأحلام مازلت أدخن وأعري بنتا قروية

قابلتها قبل قليل

البخور ممزوج بعطرها الحاد في بيت أمي

عندما أصحو لا أصدق

يا فرحة أيامي تعالي

شاهديني أطير

لقد حجزت لك سريرا في الغرفة المجاورة

لن تعود المسافات تفرقنا

أنا فم الكلارينيت

الحسي خلف أذني

ليس أمتع من أن أصطدم بسحابة

وأنا في طريقي إليك

Benoit Paillé, from “Rainbow Gatherings”. Source: lensculture.com

New York City — The Recent Past

There’s that “something” in the look she is giving you, something in her gaze which tells you that she thinks you’re interesting. You pretend not to notice it, of course, try to maintain your “cool detachment” but you aren’t sure why you’re doing it. You don’t really like to talk about yourself too much but she asked about your writing and writing is, at least to you, essentially the “core” of who you are. How could you not talk about it?

“What do you write? Would I know anything?”

You know she doesn’t know a damn thing you wrote. You know she never bothered to read anything you put to paper but she still wants to know anyway. You also know once you tell her about it she’s still not going to read anything. So you feel uncomfortable, wonder why you’re even going to bother talking about it. You know you may as well be talking to your espresso cup or the table you’re both sitting at.

You do it anyway, more out of politeness than anything else, and you watch that curious gaze begin to glaze over, watch her thoughts drift away, perhaps towards what she has to take care of when she gets home or whether or not she remembered to feed the cat. You feel like an idiot, talking about your work with the passion you have for it yet you know only every other word is actually registering. In your mind you know that everything you’ve ever written is a piece of you in some way, a sliver of who you are left behind, naked, exposed, for the whole world to see. Yet the words coming out of your mouth disappear into the ether, disintegrate before they even reach her ears.

You gradually change the subject, start talking about more universal things — movies, music, other life matters, anything at all other than the one thing you’re most passionate about. You wonder what it is about you that she’s even interested in if the most important part of you is of no consequence to her. You dole yourself out piecemeal, in shards, confetti, and you know she has her own agenda, her own reasons for sitting in front of you. Meanwhile you listen to every word she says, absorb everything about her she’s willing to give you. Her pieces. Her shards.

Overall you have a nice time. She’s warm, interesting, intelligent, but you go home knowing that half of what you said fell on deaf ears, knowing that she couldn’t care less about the one thing you’re most passionate about. You know you can write about it and that she will never read it to know how you feel about it. There is no risk, no chance of offense or even the possibility of touching her in some way. She went home with only pieces of you. She tucks them away, goes to bed, maneuvers them, strategically places them in a way that will benefit her and her alone.

You go to bed alone and will wake up alone, the pieces you left behind scattering in the wind.   

HUNGARY. Budapest. Szechenyi thermal baths. 1997.

“So this Senator’s son runs a corporate training development and implementation business—they create slick interactive slideshows, the kind that large corporations force their workers to watch at their desks for a few hours every year, what Human Resources calls mandatory compliance training. And if the workers don’t sit there, watch the slides, and take the little quizzes along the way, the compliance system sends an alert to their boss who’ll be forced to tell them in person, hey, this is mandatory, so, for real, sit down and watch it and take the quizzes or I can’t sign off on your next paycheck. Companies make their workforce do a bunch of these each year, depending on the worker’s role, things like how to avoid fraud, waste, and abuse; how to avoid sexual harassment lawsuits; how to promote diversity in the workplace; how to handle awkward conversations.”

Right.

“So the latest and greatest training module that the Senator’s son’s company created is called “How to Deal With a Hostile Intruder.” What to do if a nut with a gun rushes into the office and starts shooting. Thousands of people across not just this state but the country have to sit there, learn what to do at work if someone comes in shooting, and pass a quiz about it so they can keep their jobs. And this Senator is a big-time gun-rights supporter. Gets high marks from the NRA, an A-plus loyal guard-dog in their book, always there for a photo op with veterans and cops, always happy to fight off legislative threats to the gun business and shame the opposition. On the Fourth of July, or the anniversaries of D-Day and 9-11, there he’ll be with his media team in high gear.”

Okay.

“Well, that’s pretty much it. The NRA works with gunmakers who in turn run dozens of small and large businesses that profit off gun culture in the U.S. and around the world. It’s just like any other industry of the same size and scale, like big oil or big tobacco. They’re invested in support groups for gun violence survivors, mental and behavioral health trauma care, magazines that are pro- and anti-gun, they’ve got clothing lines, conferences, gun shows, youth groups, church groups, voter registration drives, police union outreach, in every corner of social media, supported by thousands of lawyers who protect these businesses via direct or indirect ties to the deep pockets of the gun lobby in D.C., which is working 24-7 to keep this global thing making as much money as possible. You don’t even want to know about foreign sales.”

So the Senator’s son did what?

“Nothing. He’s just good at making cheap, effective slideshows that sell really well, because the Senator is of course tight with the biggest corporations in the state. Everyone’s afraid of gun violence, in every little town and huge city, people are worried about their kids at school and on the street and workers know they could, and do, get shot at the office or on the factory floor. This lone-wolf terrorist thing, domestic or foreign, or even if it’s just some guy pissed-off about his job or something he thinks a woman did to him or he just can’t stand his life—fear of that guy is pure gold to the NRA and their diversified businesses, it’s fucking platinum. And the Senator’s son has developed the primo interactive module about “How to Deal With a Hostile Intruder.” The good people working for the billion-dollar corporations in the Senator’s state are of course scared of this shit, too, and it’s good for their businesses in more ways than one if they buy the module his son developed: not only does it show their employees they care, they also get more attention and faster answers from the Senator when their CEOs contact his office if they encounter any new potential threat to their profit margins.”

So you know the corporations lobbying him all bought the son’s module. That could just be coincidence.

“Exactly. I mean those corporations are just taking care of their employees, right? Safety in the workplace is paramount. They want people to feel safe and work hard. And it’s not like the boards of directors of all these corporations are in a good position to tell the Senator, hey, you know, you should stop supporting gun culture so much. All this death, it’s freaking people out, even our employees. Stop making it so easy for the NRA to do this, and please, sir, quit posing for pictures every other week with cops and veterans like there’s a war going on. No. If the Senator acting gung-ho earns him cash from the gun lobby that keeps him in office—a political reality these corporations must be able to leverage no matter who’s in office—they’re not going to risk losing any competitive advantage in the regional marketplace to one of the big national carriers, who are always looking to cash in on the potential in the Senator’s state. They’re going to spend whatever it takes to get the Senator’s help the same way he helps the NRA. Because these are well-respected regional carriers, trusted corporate citizens trying to deliver good products and keep premiums low.”

Ah, so this is—

“Health care. Yes. Health insurance. Actually the allied interests of a consortium of health insurance companies.”

Not that I heard this from you.

“Right. Because really all anyone has to do is look to see this going on. And it could just be coincidence, just the cost of doing business in the States.”

Rudy Descas

By Youssef Rakha

لمح مجدي – بالصدفة – إعلانًا كُتب بخط صغير أسفل زاوية في إحدى صفحات جريدة محلية.

ولأنه فضولي، أزاح طبق الطعام جانبًا، دفع مقعده الخشبي إلى الخلف وقام ليبحث عن عدسته المكبرة حتى يتبين تفاصيل الإعلان.

وبعد أن أعاد القراءة مرة وأخرى، شعر للمرة الأولى بأن هناك طريقًا للنجاة. كان الإعلان عن عودة مسابقة “قُرباننا” بعد انقطاع دام عقدًا كاملًا.تم الإعلان عن المسابقة أربع مرات، نُفذَتْ مرة واحدة وألغيت ثلاث مرات، على الرغم  من الإغراءات الكثيرة التي قدمها القائمون على المسابقة لحثّ الناس على الترشح. شروط الترشح أن تكون سليم البنيان، حسن الهيئة، خال من الأمراض. والفائز سوف يحظى بجنازة مهيبة تُذاع مباشرة على قنوات التلفزيون المحلي. وسوف يُقام له تمثال صغير يُوضع في مدخل المدينة.

لثوانٍ تخيل مجدي نفسه محمولًا على الأعناق وسط جنازة شعبية مهيبة. يَبكيه الكثيرون بحرقة، بقدر الأذى الذي رآه. وقبل الدفن، يُلقي أحدهم الخطبة التي سيعدها مجدي بنفسه، معلنًا فيها براءته، ويروي فيها فصول المعاناة التي مرّ بها.

منذ عامين، اشترى مجدي مُبرّد مياه شكرًا لله على نجاته من حادث سيارة. وُضع المبرد على جانب الطريق العمومي، ناحية مصرف المجاري، محاذيًا لكشك السجائر. روى ظمأ كثيرين، ورطب الوجوه الجافة، وصار سبيلًا لسرقة الأكواب المعدنية. وذات يوم – قبل صلاة الفجر بوقت قصير – اتجه شابان إلى المبرد. كانا قد فرغا من لعب كرة القدم. وقف أحدهما يملأ الكوب المعدني بالماء، فانتقلت شحنة كهربائية من المبرد إلى  جسده. جذبه صديقه إلى الخلف محاولًا إبعاده، فانتقلت الشحنة الكهربائية إليه فأردته قتيلًا.

استيقظ مجدي يومها مذعورًا جراء ضربات قوية على باب شقته. انتفض مسرعًا بملابسه الداخلية ليفتح الباب، فتلقى دفعة قوية في صدره أسقطته على الأرض. وبعد معاناة، اتضح له من بين السباب والصياح أنه متهم بقتل الفتى الصغير.

لوهلة سيطر على مجدي شعور بالدهشة. أي مبرّد؟ وأي فتى؟ حتى تذكر بصعوبة في النهاية. أنكر مجدي صلته بالمبرد بعد شرائه، فلقد نسى حتى مكانه. وأنقذه من الضرب المتوقع كهل ظهر فجأة بين الناس وسحب الجمع من حوله متعللًا باقتراب موعد جنازة الفتى القتيل.

ولأن مجدي لم يكن مدانًا ولم تثبت ضده أي تهمة، فقد حوّل أهل الفتى القتيل وأهالى الحي المتعاطفون معهم حياته إلى جحيم. لصقوا صورته على الحوائط في كل أرجاء المدينة، وفي القرى المجاورة وكتبوا تحتها ]قاتل[. وكلما حاول أن يبدأ حياة جديدة في مكان آخر، كانت تنهال عليه أكياس القمامة، أكوام الحصى، أو يركض الأطفال خلفه، يمسكون مؤخرته، ثم يركضون بعيدًا مع سيل من الضحكات الهازئة.

وبعد عدة محاولات فاشلة للخروج، اضطر مجدي أن يعود إلى مكانه القديم يستقبل اعتداءات فردية اعتادها مع الوقت. لكنه لم يتوقع الحدث الأكبر.

ففي ذكرى وفاة الفتى، دهن أهله والمتعاطفون معهم البناية التي يسكنها مجدي والبنايات المواجهة لها والبنايات المحيطة باللون الأسود. وباللون الأبيض رسموا صورًا للقتيل وهو يأكل، وهو يشرب، وهو نائم على بطنه، وعلى جنبه الأيمن، وجنبه الأيسر، وهو يتأمل السقف.

رسموا تخيلات لمسار حياة الفتى الطويل. رسموه في حفل تخرجه، وهو يعمل في الخليج. رسموا صورة له مع زوجته، ومع مولوده الأول،  وهو وسط أبنائه بعدما كبروا. رسموا صورته وهو عائد من رحلة الحج، رسموا حتى جنازته. رسموه عجوزًا طاعنًا في السن، فقد قرروا أن وفاته ستكون بعد عمر مديد.

كان الحاج حسين صاحب “فراشة حسن وحسين” من أشد المتعاطفين مع أهل القتيل. وفي أي وقت يشعر فيه باشتياق شديد مفاجئ لأم القتيل – حبه القديم – كان ينصب سرادقًا أمام منزل مجدي. فيغلق أهل القتيل بوابة منزل مجدي بالجنزير إذا كان بالداخل، وإذا هرب يبحثون عنه حتى يقبضوا عليه ويعيدوه إلى الشقة. ثم ينصبون السرادق في الشارع الضيق أمام منزله مباشرة. تُسلط الأضواء على الصور المرسومة بالأبيض على الجدران السوداء. وتسرد الأم بصوت باكٍ انطباعات وآراء ابنها الراحل المتوقعة عن الأحداث الجارية، في الدنيا والعالم. وتنتهي الليلة بالدعاء على مجدي القاتل فيؤمّن المتواجدون في السرادق.

تضاربت أحاسيس مجدي تجاه ما يحدث ضده. في البداية اقتنع أنه السبب في وفاة الفتى. وحين لا يجد دليلًا دامغًا على ذلك، كان يُسكت نفسه ويقول إنه هو من ابتاع المبرد. وكان يتقبّل المضايقات بشكل مبدئي، ليخفف من إحساسه بالذنب.

لكن بعدما تكرر نصب السرادق بشكل شبه أسبوعي، تحول إحساسه بالذنب إلى رغبة حارقة في إسكاتهم. وذات مرة فتح النافذة الصغيرة المطلة على السرادق وأمطرهم جميعًا بالسباب، لكن أحدًا لم يسمعه من شدة الصخب. وحفاظا على الطاقة المهدرة، أمسك مجدي منظاره المُقرب، تطلع إلى كل الموجودين في السرادق ودوّن أسمائهم واحدًا واحدًا رغبة منه في انتقام قريب.

تخيل أنه في ليلة من ليالي الاحتفال سيقفز من الشباك وينزل بسكين كبير، ينظر في عيونهم مباشرة ويفرغ غضبه في ضربات تدميهم فيجعلهم لا يقوون على الحركة. لكن الحقيقة أن مجدي صار هزيلًا جدًا، أنحف من عود قصب. فكان يصاب بالإحباط الذي لم يكن يدوم طويلا بسبب رغبته القوية في الانتقام. حتى قفزت في رأسه فكرة أن يقوم بتعديل جسده كليا.

بحث مجدي  في أشكال وأجساد المقاتلين،بداية من الحروب قبل الميلاد وحتى الحرب الكبرى. قارن بين الأجسام، انتقى المقاييس المناسبة،  عرضالكتفين والصدر، الطول، شكل الرأس والجبهة، تشريح العضلات وحجمها، ورسمها على ورقة بيضاء. وبعد أن انتهى من شكل جسمه المنشود، أصبح يخرج كل يوم في بداية نهار الله، يبحث في المستشفيات عن من يقوم بتفصيل تلك الرسومات على جسده.

تلقي ردودا ساخرة حتى أُحبط وظل قابعًا في ظلام الغرفة لفترة طويلة. حتى عاد مرة أخرى إلى منظاره، يبحث عن خطأ أو زلة يستطيع إمساكها على أحدهم واستغلالها في استمالته إلى صفه. رأى مجدي سمسمة الحلاق يبيع تذاكر لحفل العزاء للقادمين من المناطق المجاورة. وحين هدده مجدي بفضحه، أطلق سمسمة الحلاق إشاعة مفادها أن مجدي يتلصص على النساء العاريات من الشباك. فزاد غضب الأهالي ضده، حتى كادوا يفتكون به، قبل أن يلتزم الصمت نهائيًا، وخصوصًا بعد محاولة الانتحار التي باءت بفشل ذريع.

لذلك تعاظمت لدى مجدي ضرورة الترشح لمسابقة القربان. وأيضا تعاظم شعوره بالعجز والذنب حيال ضياع الفرصة منه بعد إذاعة الإعلان في التلفزيون المحلي.

جلب مجدي منشارًا كهربائيًا وخرج إلى الشارع بعد منتصف الليل. بحث عن صناديق البريد وقطعها من الخلف، فحص الأظرف، لكنه لم يجد أي رسائل أُرسلتْ على عنوان المسابقة. وعند آخر صندوق فكر إنه إذا لم يجد الرسائل، سيقوم بالذهاب إلى مقر اللجنة. لكن تم القبض عليه بتهمة تخريب الممتلكات العامة.

كان السجن مريحًا لمجدي. فالزنازين خالية، ولا يوجد من يتهمه بالقتل أو التخريب، وتدريجيًا سينساه الناس بالخارج، وهو سينسى الناس. كان السجن بديلا عن الراحة التي أرادها بالترشح للمسابقة. وتأكد حينها أن الفرصة قد ضاعت. لكن فترة سجنه كانت متعبة للأهالي. كانوا يعزون أنفسهم بأنه حتما سيخرج ويعود إلى بيته، فيغلقون عليه الأبواب ليقوم بدور القاتل الذي يتلقى الإهانات بصدر رحب. وأصبحت الاحتفالات بلا أي متعة رغم استمرارها. لم يعد الحفل مقصدا للباحثين عن زوجات، أو للباحثات عن أزواج. لم يعد فرصة لتباهي النساء بزينتهن، ولا سبيل العجائز للترويح عن النفس وتذكر الموتى. لم يعد أحد يأتي من القرى المجاورة. وببطء في البداية وعلى استحياء، بدأ الناس يطلبون من الله فكّ سجن مجدي.

يوم إعلان نتيجة المسابقة، كان مجدي يدور في زنزانته، ناسيًا مبرد المياه، والفتى المقتول، والإهانات، والخطاب الذي أرسله إلى لجنة المسابقة. كان ناسيًا كل شيء وقد أخذ يسلي نفسه بحفظ الكلمات والأشكال المكتوبة على الجدارن.

أما خارج الزنزانة فقد شعر الجميع بأن الزمن توقف في انتظار تلك اللحظة، لحظة إعلان النتيجة. أسندت أم الفتى ذراعيها على رخام المطبخ وتطلعت سرا إلى تلفزيون صغير موضوع على النملية. مدد سمسة الحلاق جسده بين مقعدين خشبيين ناظرًا إلى التلفزيون الموضوع على طاولة خشبية صغيرة. امتلأ المقهى بالناس، اختلطت نظراتهم إلى التلفزيون بدخان النرجيلة ورفرفة جناحي صقر محبوس في قفص جوار التلفزيون.

وأثناء ذلك كله، جلست رئيسة لجنة المسابقة وحيدة في مكتب مأمور السجن. تمنت أن يأتي المأمور، أرادت أن تنهي مهمتها، وتخلع نعليها الضيقين، وتفكر في الإجازة التي ستحصل عليها فور الانتهاء من المسابقة.

أُعلنت النتيجة، بعد مقدمة المذيع الطويلة، وفاز مجدي بجدارة، فهو الوحيد الذي قدم أوراقه لهذه المسابقة.

انتفض من بالمقهى غاضبين. خرج الأهالي من البيوت غير مصدقين، ومعهم أم الفتى التي لم تتوقف عن الضرب على صدرها. ركضوا جميعًا باتجاه السجن القريب، محملين برغبة في تلافي الفقد القادم.

أمسكت رئيسة اللجنة بيد مجدي، جرته كأنه طفل صغير. كان مذهولًا لا يستطيع لملمة نفسه، خصوصًا بعدما علم أن التنفيذ سيكون في فجر اليوم التالي. ركبا سيارة فولكس حمراء. حاول مجدي إعادة التفكير في الخطاب، لكن الشرود سيطر عليه، أثناء ذهاب السيارة إلى مقر اللجنة. وتفاجئت رئيسة اللجنة بشخص وقف أمام السيارة، ضغطت على المكابح بقوة قبل أن تصدمه. ثم تكالب الأهالي على السيارة، أخذوا مجدي بالقوة وعادوا به إلى بيته، قيدوه في مقعده الخشبي، ثم نزلت عليه أم الفتى القتيل بالضرب.

جاءت رئيسة اللجنة ومعها عدد كبير من الرجال. دارت معركة طويلة، واستطاعت رئيسة اللجنة في النهاية أن تحرر مجدي. وحُمِل إلى السيارة الفولكس مرة أخري.ث م قدمت له رئيسة اللجنة عددًا من الكرات، وطلبت منه أن يختار إحداها. بوهن شديد، مدّ مجدي يده وسحب كرة، ظل ممسكًا بها لفترة ثم رفع يده عاليًا وألقاها باتجاهها.

سارت السيارة في شوارع مهجورة، ولا يكسر حدة الصمت سوى نقيق الضفادع. كان مجدي نائمًا من التعب على أريكة السيارة في دعة وهدوء لم ينالهما منذ وقت طويل. ثم توقفت السيارة أمام بيت صغيرة وسط الخلاء. فتح باب السيارة عدد من النساء، حملن مجدي إلى الداخل، ثم  وضعوه على الأريكة.

كان الجو كئيبا مقبضًا، فنظرن إلى بعضهن وابتسمن. ثم انطلقن برشاقة يخلعن ملابسهن، ووقفن بقمصان داخلية زاهية الألوان. أطلقوا الموسيقى في البيت، ثم ذهبن إلى المطبخ ليصنعن سكرا لنزع الشعر.

روت كل منهما تجربتها الأولي في نزع الشعر، وحاولن استشعار الألم الذي سيشعر به مجدي. خرجن من المطبخ، وهن يتمايلن مع الأنغام والإيقاع. أطلقت إحداهنّ زغرودة مجلجلة. جردوه من ملابسه، والتفوا حوله، نزعوا الشعر من جسده بسرعة شديدة.

ندت عن مجدي آهات خفيفة تعبيرًا عن الألم. ثم ذهبن به إلى الحمام ليستحم. داعبن قضيبه، كما يداعبن خد طفل صغير، سألن القضيب إن كان فرحا أم لا. وحتى لا يتسرب الحزن إلى نفوسهن أجابوا بنعم قوية عالية. ألبسوا مجدي فستان زفاف أبيض بعدما قصوه حتى منتصف الركبة، كحلوا عيونه، وضعوا له أحمر شفاه، خبأوا علامات الضرب ببودرة حمراء. ثم  غطوا وجهه بقطعة قماش شفاف.

مع اقتراب الفجر جاءت سيارة نصف نقل، مددوا مجدي في صندوقها. تحركت السيارة باتجاه الكورنيش، وحين ظهرت وسط الناس ضحك كل من رآه. قالوا أعمى من يرضي بزواجه. صعدت السيارة إلى كوبري عالٍ، رفعوا مجدي وألقوه من فوق الكوبري.

وحين سقط في النيل، هلل الناس معلنين عودة عروس النيل.

Peter van Agtmael. The Snakeman, a friend of some residents of Slab City. USA. Niland, CA. 2009. Source: magnumphotos.com

عطفٌ وحنانٌ من ثعبانٍ لدغني ألف مرَّة في شبابه وقمّة نشاطه، وتسبَّب في إعاقتي تلك الإعاقات المزمنة التي تحتاج لطبيب عاش طوال عمره في البحث والدراسة. هو أيضاً سيطبِّب ما يستطيع ويترك الباقي للوقت، فالسمُ قد دخل إلى كل خلية في جسمي وأتلفها كالطفل الذي يتلف الدُمية التي لا تعجبه أو التي ملَّها.

أتيتُ بناءًا على طلبك وقد بعثني الله لكثرة رجائك. ورغم ذلك فقد حاولتَ ما استطعت أن تجعلني مسخاً لك – أنا كنتُ ضعيفاً وأنت كنت حينها تحاول قتلي، كأنك تخاف أن أكبر وألدغك.

أتيتُ وكلِّي رغبة في العيش في هذه الدنيا لأكتشف صغيرها قبل كبيرها، لكنك أيها الثعبان الضعيف قتلتَ حب الاكتشاف بسمّك الذي كان له أكثر من طَعمٍ. أرى الآن الدنيا التي أخفيتَها عني.

سمومك تنهال خروجاً من جسدي كأنها الماء يتدفق بعد تحطم السد الذي صنعتْه أفكارك. فُرِضتَ عليّ. ولكن لن تَفرض عليَّ شيئاً بعد اليوم. لم أعد أخاف عضّتك فقد صنعتُ درعاً يحميني. وبالنسبة للسم، أعرفُ أنه انتهى منك أو كاد.

أعرف أنك ستطلب أن أحافظ عليك وأحميك. بالطبع أستطيع، أستطيع أن أعطف عليك بعدما رأيت تلك النظرة في عينيك: نظرة الخوف من الآتي. وشكلك الذي بدأ يظهر بصورة جديدة، شكل يتماشى مع كبر سنَّك. أعرف أنك لا تستطيع تبديل جلدك مرة أخرى، فهذا يحتاج إلى قوة وأنت فقدت كل شيء.

أنا لا أملك إلا قلباً واحداً وهذا القلب أحبَّك لأنك الثعبان الذي اختاره الله لي. لم يكن بوسعي الاختيار. لن أخاف النظر اليك. أعدُك: لن أشمئز.

Alex Majoli, Scutari, Albania, 1997. Source: magnumphotos.com

Tirana, Albania — April 11th 1985

1

The foremost leader has died.

National mourning. Black flags flutter from the windows along side our national flag. Tears, agony, grief, everywhere one looks.

The television shows nothing but tributes to our fallen comrade.

I sit in the café, sip my coffee, watch the grief stricken faces of my fellow comrades. I look out the window at everyone just standing around, consoling one another, seeking comfort in another’s embrace.

I turn my attention back to the interior, continue to sip my coffee, occasionally watch the old films of our foremost leader when he was young, healthy, strong.

The café is crowded but most people don’t speak, most sit with their own thoughts, grieving, as if a member of their own family has passed. In a lot of ways, one had.

A woman sits by herself at the far end of the café. She isn’t crying or gazing at the television. She simply stirs a spoon in her coffee cup, smokes a cigarette, gazes out the window with no expression. She looks sad but there are no tears. Thin and pale, deep lines  crease the corners of her mouth. I can tell that she must have been very beautiful once but either time or hardship had nearly erased all traces of it. It isn’t until she glances my way that I realize who it is.

I can’t look at her.

If it weren’t for those eyes, I would have never believed it.

2

“Remember what our foremost leader says,” Leotrim said. “If we slackened our vigilance even for a moment or toned down our struggle against our enemies in the least, they would strike immediately like the snake that bites you and injects its poison before you are even aware of it.”

Leotrim Marashi was the troupe’s leader and I often found it astonishing how he was able to quote from Hoxha’s speeches and writings word for word. I’d always admired Leotrim. He was one of the most ideologically pure men I had ever known. He was right about what the foremost leader said. There were enemies about, waiting for the right moment to destroy us so I saw it as a great honor when he ordered our group to participate in the continuing construction of the bunkers. It had been an on going project since I was born and the bunkers were everywhere — from the beaches to the mountains to the vineyards and pastures, and even the graveyards. Hoxha was absolutely convinced of a coming ‘two front war’ and we had to be vigilant. Who were we to question him? He knew what was best for us. He always had.

By the time the project made its way up north to Vermosh, there was plenty of work to do, insufferably hard work but necessary. Little by little new members of the group turned up, some from my own town, others from towns around the region. Wherever we were needed.

Leotrim was a bit older than the rest of us, already twenty-three and nearly at the end of his tenure. We all looked up to him, worshiped him in fact. We did everything he told us to do without question or complaint. A man of conviction, discipline. We all knew that one day he would move up in the ranks and become a very important member of the party. Perhaps one day he’d even meet Hoxha himself.

On the morning the new members arrived I was surprised to see so many girls among them. The chapter I belonged to consisted entirely of boys and according to the initial rumors many of these girls had come up north from Tirana as volunteers. They were different from the girls I had known in my village — more sophisticated, adult.

They didn’t pay us any mind when they first arrived, although the boys had immediately tried to get their attention. The girls were immediately smitten with Leotrim, whose commanding presence must have been hard to resist. He was a man — tall, well built, masculine, handsome. We were barely out of puberty — skinny, awkward children. For the rest of us, it was just like being anywhere else, particularly school, where it was ultimately the girls who chose who they wanted to pay attention to. Leotrim didn’t have that problem. The girls literally threw themselves at his feet, gazed lovingly at him, giggled whenever he was near. The Alpha, and he relished this position as well as his official one, though he tried hard not to show it. We saw it.

I never had any animosity towards Leotrim because of this but I did feel that the arrival of the girls was going to cause problems. Three of the boys, Bashkim, Kostandin, and Kreshnik, were always making eyes at them, flirted with them, did whatever they could to gain their attention, whereas I tried to maintain some semblance of professionalism. We weren’t there to play games.

But there was one girl — Edona Hysaj — and she was by far the most beautiful of them all.

I fell in love with her the instant I saw her although I didn’t outwardly show it. She was taller than most girls her age — thin, with long black hair, pale skin and plump, fleshy lips. Those beautiful green eyes, how they seemed to hypnotize you whenever they gazed at you. Whenever she was around I felt like a little boy — awkward, shy, inadequate.

I noticed right away that she knew one of the boys, Bashkim, and they appeared to be very close. I later found out that they grew up in the same village, practically on the same street. Needless to say I did feel some envy towards Bashkim but there really wasn’t anything I could do about it nor was I about to embarrass myself by making my feelings known to everyone.

The truth was I never liked Bashkim much and I was always a little suspicious of him. He didn’t take things seriously, often joked around, teased the other boys, and more often than not, wandered off to read those books of his, dozens of them, books that seemed highly suspicious at times since he always tried to hide them whenever Leotrim or I approached him. He acted a lot younger than his sixteen years in many ways and I often thought him an embarrassment to the whole troupe.

I once brought this to Leotrim’s attention, even professed my concerns about the books he was reading. Leotrim said he would handle it but I don’t think he ever did. Bashkim kept right on clowning around as he always had, kept sneaking off to read his books, and I knew that if Leotrim had spoken to him about it, Bashkim would have fallen into line. It also didn’t help that Edona was always with him and more than once I had seen Bashkim showing her his books and it would cause great concern whenever I saw her taking an interest in them.

I put up with Bashkim and his behavior and even ignored the fact that Edona had often stopped what she was doing in order to spend time with him because we were too busy at the task at hand to make an issue of it. The bunkers were being constructed at a furious pace. I had my hands full with my squad to have time to pay much attention to Bashkim and Edona. Still, I couldn’t help but notice since I could barely take my eyes off her.

At night, when back in the barracks, I behaved just like the other boys, would clown around a bit and even engage in conversation with Bashkim now and then. Still, I tried my best to keep him at arm’s length. It was only after Edona arrived that I started to pay closer attention to him.

3

I feel the tears welling up in my eyes but they’re not tears for Hoxha. I do my best to keep from crying but it isn’t easy. I dab my eyes with a napkin, dare to glance at the lonely woman across the café. She’s staring at me, her elbow propped up on the table, the cigarette between her fingers, the smoke curling into the air. I look away.

4

“The canon of the Sharia and the Church, closely linked with the laws of the bourgeoisie, treated women as a commodity, a thing to be bought and sold by the male. Just as the bourgeoisie had made the worker into its proletarian, so had the savage ancient canons of the sharia, the Church, feudalism and the bourgeoisie reduce woman to the proletariat of the man…”

Every morning before beginning work, Leotrim would gather us all in front of his quarters and quote the foremost leader to remind us how important our work was for the nation. This particular morning he had specifically chosen a passage which dealt with women. The girls loved this of course and as Leotrim spoke they couldn’t take their eyes off him. I tried not to either, out of respect, but I couldn’t help notice Bashkim and Edona standing just a little too close and whispering to one another, not taking any of it as seriously as they should have. I tried to get Bashkim’s attention but I may as well have been invisible. The other boys? They were too busy trying to steal glances of the girls who stood there playing with their hair as they gazed lovingly at Leotrim, enraptured by his undeniable charisma.

I looked over at Bashkim and I saw him lift his shirt to reveal the paperback he had  tucked down the front of his pants. Edona glanced at it and smiled. He clandestinely tucked his shirt back into his pants to hide the book, then turned his attention to Leotrim, pretending to listen. It was at that moment that Edona noticed me watching her. She held my gaze for a moment. I felt flush, the back of my neck begin to sweat. I quickly looked away, embarrassed.

“No force, no torture, no intrigue can eradicate Marxism-Leninism from the minds and hearts of men,” Leotrim said, again quoting Hoxha.   

I thought I heard a snort and immediately turned my gaze towards Bashkim and Edona. When I fixed my gaze on Edona, I saw that she was struggling not to burst into laughter. Bashkim reached for her hand in an attempt to prevent this from happening but she covered herself by breaking into a wide smile and taking Bashkim’s hand. I looked away, again feeling flush, tried my hardest to listen to Leotrim’s address but I could hardly hear a word he said. I kept seeing that image over and over in my mind — Edona’s slim, delicate fingers taking hold of that foolish bastard’s hand.

When Leotrim finished speaking, I immediately gathered my squad and marched them off to the work area.

5

I finished my lunch and left Kostandin and Kreshnik to themselves.

There was still a little time before we had to get back to work so I decided to take a walk and try to clear my mind. I took a moment to gaze out over the river, towards the mountains  — the Bjeshkët e Nâmuna, or ‘accursed mountains’ — which extends to eastern Kosovo and Montenegro. According to local folklore, the nearby villages were founded by three brothers, Seli, Vuli, and Neli, in which the villages of Selca, Vukli, and Nicki were named. It is a very ancient place, where the Kelmendi, who are said to have descended from Illyrian tribes, have inhabited since the Bronze Age. Archeologists have found artifacts that prove as much. I was always proud of this heritage and I imagine the region didn’t look much different now as it had to them, except for some of the more modern homes and roads. The fresh air, the rugged landscape, the inviting river and vegetation, I never understood some my colleagues’ eagerness to move south to the capital. I sat down, stared out towards the river, allowed my mind to wander. Here, it seemed, that time had stood still.

Then, I heard a woman’s laughter. I waited a moment to try to discern the direction from which it came. There, on the other side of the downward slope toward the valley.

I crept toward the edge of the slope, doing my best to remain as quiet as possible. Again, a woman’s laughter, this time a playful giggle. When I reached the edge of the slope I saw Bashkim and Edona lying on the grass. Bashkim was laying on his back, his head resting on his clasped hands. Edona was practically on top of him, bestowing little kisses to his neck and lips. The paperback which Bashkim had hidden in his pants was lying open, face down on the grass.

I slipped behind the tree, tried to listen to them but I couldn’t hear them. I gradually inched my way closer, concealing myself within the bushes. They no longer spoke. Instead, Edona pressed her lips to Bashkim and he freed his hands in order to hug her close to him. I watched them kissing, touching one another, Bashkim’s hand slipping inside Edona’s uniform. When Edona’s hand slipped down the front of Bashkim’s pants, I ran off.

6

When I glance at the woman again, to my horror she stubs out her cigarette, stands up and starts walking towards me. She’s much thinner than she was, nearly emaciated. Her once slim and sexy figure is gone, nothing left under the loose fitting outfit which would have once hugged every contour of her body. Her hair is now peppered with grey, limp and much shorter than it once had been. The only thing that hadn’t changed were her eyes, still as hypnotic as they ever were, still a sign of life behind them. Again, I look away.

7

For the rest of the afternoon I remained quiet, retreated inside myself. I threw myself into the work and only spoke with my squad when I had to. I think they knew something was wrong, judging from the looks I was getting, but I did my best not to let on that anything was wrong.

I couldn’t get the image of Bashkim and Edona out of my mind and felt a chill run up my back whenever I pictured her soft, delicate hands reaching down the front of his pants. I have no idea what happened after I ran off, if anything, but when I saw them return to the work site with their clothing disheveled and Edona’s hair tied back into a ponytail, I knew what had taken place.

Later, when work was done for the day, I ran into Bashkim as I washed up and readied for dinner. He stood next to me, washing the dirt and grime from his hands, neck and face, but he didn’t say anything to me. He looked at me once, smiled, then went back to washing himself. Then he quietly walked away.

Seething with anger, I marched right over to Leotrim’s quarters, knocked on the door but there was no answer. I went straight to my barracks, lied down in my bed. I had lost my appetite.

8

She moves the vacant chair away, drops her pack of cigarettes on the table.

When I finally look up, she just stands there staring at me.

Without asking, she sits down. I can’t even look at her.

9

It was sometime in the middle of the night when I heard something outside my barracks. I sat up in bed, heard the muffled voices coming from just on the other side of the wall.

I went to the window, peered out. Just to the side of the window, I could see Bashkim’s arm, shoulder. There was no doubt who the girl was. I listened:

“Once we’re finished here and get back to Selca,” Bashkim whispered.

“I don’t know if I could wait that long,” Edona said.

“I know, I know, but we can’t focus on that right now. Once we’re in the university, then…”

“It seems like it’s taking forever.”

“Summer’s almost over.”

Then there was silence. I couldn’t see what was going on. I quietly crept out of the room. Once outside, I kept myself pressed against the wall of the barracks. When I peered around to where the window was, I saw Bashkim and Edona kissing, his hands roaming all over her backside. I felt flush and had to look away.

“I hate this,” Edona said.

“I know but we have to,” Bashkim replied. “Just a few more weeks, that’s all. It will all be over soon.”

He pressed her against the wall and kissed her again, more passionately this time. Edona undid her ponytail, her black hair spilling across her shoulders.

“Did you get a chance to look at the book?” Bashkim asked.

“I didn’t understand it,” Edona said, then in a low whisper, “Where did you get that?”

“Let’s just say a friend of mine got it for me. Where is it? You didn’t leave it lying around, did you?”

“I hid it under my mattress. The girls won’t look there.”

When I peered around the corner of the barracks, they were kissing again.

That damn book. Under her mattress…

10

“I thought it was you, Gjon,” she says.

I look into her eyes, hold her gaze for a moment. I can’t think of anything to say.

She manages a smile, though it isn’t exactly a friendly one. More sardonic. When she does the lines around her mouth etch deeper into her face. I try to smile but can’t. Instead, I gesture towards her pack of cigarettes. She nods. I light one.

She sits back, runs her slim fingers through her hair. It falls back across her face, the absence of its former luster more pronounced. She looks as if she had aged twenty years.

She glances out the window, stares at an old man and old woman holding each other in an embrace. The corners of her lips twitch, not quite a smirk, not quite a burgeoning smile. Just a movement. Unreadable.

I still don’t know what to say to her.

11

Edona kept the door unlocked. I opened it slowly, trying to keep the creaking of the hinges to a minimum. When I opened it enough to slip though, I waited a moment, looked around the barracks to see all the girls sound asleep.

There was only one empty bed.

I took off my shoes and left them by the door. I had to move quickly.

Once I reached Edona’s bed, I placed my hand under the mattress and felt around until my hand finally made contact with my target. The book was small enough to put into my back pocket. I did so without bothering to look at it.

I picked up my shoes and ran off towards my barracks.

I went into the bathroom and locked the door, removed the book from my pocket.

At first I just stared at it, unable to believe what I was seeing. How was it even possible?

I put the book back in my pocket.

Then I went to see Leotrim.

12

“Why, Gjon,” she says.

I couldn’t answer. I take a drag off my cigarette, fiddle with my coffee cup.

The noise within the café becomes far too loud, distracting all of a sudden: the television, the clinks of the spoons and forks against the cups and plates, the sobbing, the desperate groans of the bereaved.

I want to do nothing more than to jump up and run out of the café but I can’t move. I look into her eyes, remember.

13

At first I was the only one who noticed the black sedan. It crawled up the road, then turned off towards the worksite itself.

The two men who got out of the car were obviously Sigurimi. One could always spot them immediately but then again they made no secret that they were there keeping an eye on you. To the untrained eye they looked just like anyone else. It was the way they carried themselves that gave them away. They were both young men, in their thirties, and they had that look on their faces which said they were eager to do their job. I felt my stomach turn because I knew why they were there. I watched them go into Leotrim’s office.

Konstandin noticed them too, came over to me. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” I lied.

Konstandin looked around. “No one else saw them.”

“They will soon enough.”

“I better get back to work, then” he said. “I don’t want any trouble or give them any reason to notice me.”

He jaunted off back to the rest of the squad. I watched him. He didn’t say a word to anyone, went back to mixing the concrete.

I went back to the task at hand. It was only a matter of time.

I looked around the worksite and noticed both Bashkim and Edona weren’t around. I had an idea where they were. I dropped my spade and wandered off towards the river, to the slope where I had seen them the day before. Sure enough they were there, lying on the grass, kissing, touching. When I saw that — and the way Edona looked at Bashkim — all guilt was suddenly flushed away.

Just like that.

14

“You have nothing to say to me,” Edona says. “I don’t know why I’m not surprised at this.”

An old woman let out a mournful groan, beat her hands against her chest. I look at her, more as a way to avoid having to look at Edona.

“Look at me, Gjon.”

I do, reluctantly. Her eyes stare directly into mine. I’m hypnotized.

“I just want to understand why.”

I don’t know what to say to her, feel the tears welling up in my eyes again.

15

By the time I returned to the work site, Leotrim was standing in the doorway to his office. When he saw me, he waved me over. I immediately dropped the spade to the ground, wiped the wet concrete from my hands onto my shirt.

Leotrim didn’t say a word to me but I could tell from his expression that he was proud of what I had done. I stepped into his office to see the two men sitting in the chairs before Leotrim’s desk. Leotrim pulled up a chair for me.

“He’s the one who reported this to you?” one of the men asked.

Leotrim went behind his desk, removed the paperback from the drawer, handed it over to the man.

The man looked it over, using his thumb to flip through the already flaking pages, pieces of them falling like snowflakes on his trousers. “Not a good job at all,” he said, passing the book over to his partner. “Very cheaply done. Seems like we have an underground press in operation somewhere.” Then to me, “You said you found this under the girl’s mattress?”

I just nodded.

“And you said that it belongs to a comrade Bashkim?”

Again, I nodded.

“At least its in Albanian,” the man’s partner said. “Someone translated this. Took a lot of work.”

“Indeed,” the other man said, taking the book from him. He put the book down on Leotrim’s desk. The crude drawing of Jesus Christ staring up at me. “And a book by a Greek, no less,” he added.

I had no choice but to tell them everything I had seen — their trysts, the secret way they had spoken to one another, the clowning around, not taking the task seriously, and probably the worst offense, their mocking of the foremost leader’s words. This, coupled with the contraband book, meant only one thing.

“Are they out there now, on the work site?” Leotrim asked.

“No,” I said. “They’re off on one of their trysts. Near the river.”

Leotrim’s expression was serious. “Can you show us where?”

They followed me out and by then everyone saw them and knew what was going on. Everyone’s eyes were on us, including the girls. I led them to the top of the slope, pointed them out.

The man removed a camera from his pocket, began taking photographs of them in the throes of passion. I had to look away, more out of not being able to see Edona in such a position than anything else. After they had taken enough photographs, they turned away, started back towards Leotrim’s office.

I didn’t go back with them. I picked up the spade and began applying the cement to the bunker, getting ready to set the bricks into place.

Maybe a half hour went by, I’m not sure, but I looked up and saw both Bashkim and Edona coming up over the slope towards the worksite. They didn’t have time to be warned about what had been happening all morning.

Before they knew it, the Sigurimi appeared, took them away.

16

“Five years in Spaç,” Edona said. “That’s what they gave me. ‘Ideological crimes’. They only agreed to release me because I admitted that Bashkim had a library of forbidden books and  that he had a contact who supplied them to him. I didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to betray Bashkim but what choice did I have?”

“I thought it would be a reeducation camp,” I tell her, unable to look her in the eye because I knew it was a lie.

She sits back, crosses her arms in front of her. “Really, Gjon? Did you really not know what happens when they take you away?”

I don’t have an answer for her. I’d heard about what happened in the camps but I never believed it but over the past few years my colleagues had informed me about what went on there. I never wanted to believe that our foremost leader would ever treat his own children in such a manner. I’ve since learned that Spaç is one of the most notorious prisons in the country, built on the side of a mountain in the interior of the country. The working conditions there can only be described as medieval. The thought of Edona having been put through that…

“I’ve been under surveillance since they released me. They’re probably here right now watching us.”

I look around the café. Anyone there could have been the Sigurimi and if so, I knew now that I was on their radar for simply being seen with Edona.

“Yes,” Edona says. “That’s how it feels. I don’t care anymore. They’ve already ruined my life. What more can they do other than kill me. At this point, it might be preferable.”

I feel a sob get caught in my throat, my eyes fighting back the tears.

“I’ve been living hand to mouth, working at a factory making toys for children that no child even wants to play with. Any ideas I had about working at the university are over. I’ve been barred from an academic career as a condition of my release.”

She’s lucky that she’s even alive. Many who go off to Spaç never come out. The few fortunate ones that do, they’re lives are never the same. They are never the same.

Edona reaches for a cigarette. I light it for her. She inhales deeply, sits back in her chair as she exhales a large plume of smoke. She fixes her gaze on me, the corner of her fleshy, pale lips pulling to one side. “I just don’t care anymore,” she says, “and this is not a social visit. I want to know if you heard anything about Bashkim.”

My stomach turns.

“Don’t try to tell me that you don’t know,” she continues. “Men in your position know everything. The least you could do is be honest with me.” 

Again, I feel a sob catching in my throat. She hates me. I can’t blame her for hating me. Had the situation been reversed, I would have hated her with every ounce of my being. I want to apologize but I can’t muster the courage.

There’s no telling what she had experienced in Spaç but I have a general idea. They sometimes worked the prisoners to death in the mines that were dug out of the mountainside. I don’t want to think about it. I keep picturing her as she was when she first stepped off the bus, how stunningly beautiful she once was. There is still beauty there, if you looked hard enough, but she’s clearly a shell of her former self.

“Bashkim, Gjon,” she says, staring into my eyes. “What happened to him?”

“He was sent to Qafë Bar,” I say.

Tears well up in her eyes, her lips quiver. “Is he…?”

I slowly nod.

Tears tumble from her eyes, down her wan cheeks, drip off her chin onto the table.

Last year there was a revolt at the prison. The organizers and many of the participants were executed. No one knows for sure how many were killed. No one knows what became of the bodies. Bashkim was one of them.

“I was holding out hope,” Edona says, crushing her cigarette out in the ashtray, “but I should have known better.”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.

She just looks at me, those hypnotic eyes staring into mine. She doesn’t say a word. There is no hatred in her eyes but there is sadness, a loss of hope. As I look at her, despite the wretched condition that she’s in, I still feel love for her. I begin to cry, reach out for her hand. She yanks it away. “I’m sorry,” I croak.

She stands up, picks up her pack of cigarettes and her lighter, looks down at me. When I look up at her, I can hardly keep my eyes open due to the tears, can hardly catch my breath to say anything. Without another word she walks away.

I follow her out of the café, begging, pleading with her for forgiveness but she ignores me, keeps walking. I stop, realize that I was not going to push my way through the crowd of mourners, watch her disappear into the sea of bodies along the avenue.

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Cairo by Piri Reis, 16th century. Source: Wikipedia

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The truth is, I don’t believe all that much in writing. Starting with my own. Being a writer is pleasant—no, pleasant isn’t the word—it’s an activity that has its share of amusing moments, but I know of other things that are even more amusing, amusing in the same way that literature is for me. Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team. Unfortunately, the child grows up, the bank robber is killed, the director runs out of money, the gigolo gets sick and then there’s no other choice but to write. For me, the word writing is the exact opposite of the word waiting. Instead of waiting, there is writing.—Roberto Bolaño

Source: 123rf.com

Liza Zhakova, from “fuckmehard”. Source: lensculture.com

Boathouse

From this red block of pure substance we look toward sea, separated from it by tiny flakes of white paint. Some finger has stuck itself in the same pot to draw wave tops, a line quivering but unbroken. Doctors speak of low iron levels in the blood and say things, “a nice broth is what you need” “a good cut of meat”, while the strength of the soul goes unmentioned. Yet here we rest, Soul and I, knowing better. I talk to you as if I’m old and you’re innocent, and I keep a shell in my hand. We sit in the shell of the boathouse, and my body remains a shell for you, and nothing passes through my mind except that I want to write lines clean and new. The wave top looks like a dishcloth wrung out, and the speed I move is not the speed of the water.

Out of clay

Once I spent a few hours piling up everything I’d written in one place, everything that I thought was worth something. I was afraid of someone but didn’t want to just disappear, so I made preparations. But when the fear went away, the pile stayed where it was, a deformed monument, a pot retaining the image of all the other pots it had been during its process of making. Everything that had happened before the end of the laying of hands on clay, everything that is now both here and not here.

Eleven

Eleven was always my number, the one on my jersey every year except the terrible season I wore six after losing a bet to a bigger girl. That was the same season we had eight or nine on the field every game against the opposition’s eleven, since our stars all injured themselves at the same time, and needless to say we took home no wins, even if on the back line I got plenty of exercise. Eleven has been in every one of my passwords, and I like it because it reminds me of leavened bread with lots of air in the dough, along with silly words like lalala, delight, elevate. It’s a joyful number, my eleven, in Roman numerals two. A pair of girls stick-straight, standing side by side like my sister and me, neither of us blessed with curves. Elevenses is the name of the British morning snack, the gentle opening vowel precisely the right tone for honey on bread and a cup of tea, and for scribbling something trivial and cheerful before the clock stumbles forward once more into grim single digits.

Christopher Anderson, Greek Orthodox service in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, 2007.

(5)

All the letters – talismans,

and the words are riddles.

Between the alef and the yaa,

metaphor, metonymy and pun.

Beginning and end,

place and time,

lover and beloved and homeland:

puzzles, puzzles, puzzles.

(6)

In the beginning were the apricots

The first home

Earth sizzling

Beetle crackles

In the time of the apricots

Early summer’s stories

of Platonic love

The alleyway: tired dogs

and annoying neighbours

In the time of the apricots

The mornings green, yellow

and honey hued

The itinerant ice cream vendor

calling out in the afternoon

The smell of burning sugar

Children playing in the dust

while my mother makes coffee

and milk and tea

My mother

Always my mother

The greatest infidelities

and the harshest losses

and the longest exile

In the time of the apricots

(20)

I sold my soul to twenty merchants

who traded it for a rocket

locally manufactured

I sold it in return for pictures of a school being bombed

and mothers losing their minds

I sold my soul and saw only

repetitive copies of verses and sayings

that the devil would be ashamed of chanting

I sold it and I cursed all the applause and the wailing

while they were buying a rocket

to aim at my chest once I proclaim

that Palestine is not a cause

.

Translated from the Arabic by Youssef Rakha

Han Sungpil, My Sea, the Sea I Dreamt (015), 2006

مركب على حجر بقرب البحر

يسألون من رسمه؟

أحد المارة ربما،

أو شاب محبط،

حلم قبل سنتين أن يركب البحر، ويهرب.

مركب على حجر بقرب البحر

مرسوم بالطبشور.

قد يكون معلمًا بمدرسة الحي

أصابه الضجرٌ بعد انتهاء دوامه بالثالثة

ولم يعرج على المقهى ككل مساء.

أو تلميذ بالصف الابتدائي

يحب المياه،

ويصنع المراكب الورقية لأصدقائه،

ثم يحكي لهم قصصًا عن القراصنة ووحوش المحيط.

.

مركب على حجر بقرب البحر

مرسوم بالطبشور الأبيض

يقول المركب:

أنا مركبٌ من نور

أعبر كل ليلة للطرف الآخر من العالم،

وأعود قبل بزوغ الشمس.

ويقول البحر:

الأبيض ليس طبشورًا،

يومًا ما،

مر أحدهم من هنا،

سرق بعضًا من ملحي،

رسم القارب،

ورحل.

.

9 أغسطس 2016؛ تونس/الفيوم

Caravaggio’s “The Taking of Christ”. Source: newyorker.com

He is arrogant.

Like a Jerusalem oak—growing in the most narrow fissure, the most meager soil—that was his arrogance, at first. There was almost nothing to feed it. It was thin and pale and stood apart from the vast landscape of him—a few dry green leaves that were, at most, a distraction, a distraction from that great and beautiful emptiness. Because that’s what was most remarkable about him—that emptiness—vast and open and almost unimaginable.

But now that he’s going to die—and he knows that he’s going to die—the arrogance has blossomed. It is hearty and thriving. It has become a towering thing. When I kiss him I can taste it, sour, like blood on his lips, like the taste of a copper coin. And so I pull back. I turn my face away.

“What?” he says. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Why did you stop, then?”

“Who am I?” I ask him.

“You’re my beloved,” he says, as always.

“Tell me who I am,” I insist. “Say it again, just so I can hear it.”

“You know who you are,” he whispers, pulling my body against his. “You’re my savior.”

✞

I’ve tried to remember the shape of his jaw. I’ve traced it with my fingertips and lingered on the texture of his jawbone, itself—that elemental thing that will remain for so many years after he, himself, is gone. The jawbone that shapes his voice. The jawbone that shelters the slick muscle of his tongue. I want to hold it in my memory—along with the gentle creases at the edges of his eyes, the way he smiles sadly when he tells me something interesting—when he imagines some distant place, or some time other than this one, now.

And so I’ve often asked him, when we’re alone at night, “What will I do when you’re gone?” Or, “We need to leave all of this, the two of us—and go.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere we want to,” I say.

“They’d find us,” he says. “They’d catch us, eventually.”

“But we’d be together,” I say.

“And how would we afford it?” he says. “How would you pay?”

And I don’t know how to answer. My father was poor; my father’s father was poor; my lineage is many generations of poverty. But of course he knows this. That’s why he says it—just to remind me.

“Quiet,” he tells me, and he pours a cup of water over the steaming heated stones in the bucket beside the door of our tent. “It’s not so bad here,” he says, and he sits down in front of me and rubs warm cinnamon oil into the skin of my shoulders. “I’m the king, here,” he says, “the king of all of them.” And he takes me in his mouth; he puts his hands in the hair of my chest, and I forget about everything else.

There is only the steam, and the cinnamon, and the heat of his body.

I am anointed with the holy spirit.

✞

We come to the house of Simon the Leper.

The sick and the dying line up outside. All day, he is with them. I go to the market and buy him a gift: perfume in an alabaster jar. It’s expensive, but it is something for us, alone. Even as I am shopping, the market seethes with rumors. He’s been arrested; he’s preparing to reunite the twelve tribes of Israel beneath one, golden throne; he’s gone to Rome, where he will have an audience with the emperor.

None of this is true.

I find him at home with the others, eating a meal. I join them. I sit among them—my friends and brothers. We drink wine. We eat lamb and sweet salty yoghurt and flatbread and apricots and rice. We drink more wine. Despite the wine it is a somber meal. We talk intently of the challenges that face us—all of us—as we prepare for a kind of war.

This is my mistake: I leave the jar of perfume on a shelf, where it can be seen. A serving woman—a woman with a child who is ill—seizes it and runs to his side. He is the king, indeed; he holds the possibility of her redemption.

“Please, my Lord,” she says, pouring the perfume in his hair, “please, I beg of you—save my son, my child, my dear small child.”

There is an uproar. The woman is sobbing. A chair topples. The others stand, some of them; they have all been drinking; they do not like that their sense of order has been disturbed. They reproach her, then, they try to shame her however they can. Think of the waste, they say. But they know it is not wasteful.

He holds up his hand.

“Why do you trouble her?” he says, looking directly at me. “She’s done me a great kindness.” He kisses her cheek then, lingering far too long with his lips on her soft skin. “For you have the poor with you, always,” he says. “But—not me—not always.”

When he says this, when he says that word, poor, he gestures to me. And he laughs as he says it—just a shadow of laughter, an echo of it, just enough for me to hear, just enough for the others to notice. I stand apart from them, then, shamed. The poor, they all think—though only a few of them can manage to look towards me. Yes, that’s right. That’s who he really is.

Elliott Erwitt, New York City, 1977. Source: magnumphotos.com

I can only relate poems to dreams,

that’s why the last three years

I had a few of them

though I’d already denounced myself as a poet;

because escaping from consciousness

is like escaping from the self,

it doesn’t go past skin’s borders.

I’ve counted masturbation sessions as though counting sheep,

without calculating mean or median

or any statistical tricks.

I wanted to say, Love you,

but it came out, Fuck you.

Maybe we can have dinner some time?

Source: diptykblog.com

Olivia C. Harrison and Teresa Villa-Ignacio’s Souffles-Anfas: A Critical Anthology from the Moroccan Journal of Culture and Politics, published by Stanford University Press this year, is a new way into the Middle East and North Africa

There would be little point in writing a conventional review of Souffles-Anfas. A collection such as this is about far more than the curatorial choices made by the editors, and should be celebrated simply for existing at all. To that end praise and congratulations should flow to the editors and to Stanford University Press for backing the publication. There can be no more apt reason for university presses to exist than to publish manifestoes and articles from a quintessential little magazine that endured less than seven years before being suppressed and shut down by an increasingly intolerant Moroccan government. On the other hand one of the journal editors recounts that the need to write so afflicted a contributor that he submitted a short story to an automobile club magazine simply to have an audience. Any collection of writings about the Middle East and North Africa that includes such a story demands an even larger, international audience.

The editors of the anthology present introductions and manifestoes from all across the magazine’s run, nearly all written by Abdellatif Laâbi, already a poet in 1966, in his mid twenties. He edited and largely supported the journal through the years of its existence. In 1972, the year that Souffles and its partner journal Anfas were shut down, Laâbi was arrested, and imprisoned for the next eight years (just two shy of the decade long sentence he received) and he went into exile to France 1985, where he has made his home since.

Souffles and Anfas are two separate, though linked, journal efforts. The first, Souffles was launched in 1966 in an effort to encourage Moroccan writers and artists to embark on creative experimentation to further advance post-independence art and literary culture. The goal of Souffles was the reinvigoration of Moroccan culture in whatever languages were available. This editorial decision sidestepped the question of whether continuing to write in French was an extension of the colonial regime. Nonetheless the issue did not disappear and Anfas was launched in 1971 as a signal that the cosmopolitan focus of Souffles could be complemented by a publication with a more explicitly political focus in Arabic. Anfas provided a platform for revolutionary art as a way both to highlight the plight of the Palestinians and to encourage the resistance and secular radicalization of conservative Arab states such as Morocco.

Laâbi and Souffles did not limit themselves to only Moroccan writers or local concerns. The journal was a platform for experimental writing and art from across the North Africa, spanning ethnic and confessional communities. Contributors in the anthology include Albert Memmi of Tunisia, René Depestre of Haiti, Emory Douglas of the United States and Ousmane Sembène of Senegal, among others. Two artists who contributed were two cartoonists, Maurice Sinet from France, and George Wolinski from Tunis, whose work appeared in a range of publications including Charlie Hebdo.

With the launch of Anfas the clock started winding down for Laâbi and his journals. The more narrowly political Anfas sought a cultural engagement with the failure of Arab regimes to successfully confront Israel, particularly in the aftermath of the disastrous 1967 war, where in the space of less than a week Egypt, Jordan and Syria were defeated. While it remains difficult to pin down the specific reasons for the violent crackdown on the contributors and the journals, the editors suggest that the topics covered in Anfas shifted the perception that the journals were an outlet for a cultural avant-garde and instead were becoming a mouthpiece for a political opposition. Anfas contributors wrote on corruption and problems with education in Morocco. They discussed labor disputes, and expressed an alignment between the struggles in the countries of North Africa with the liberation struggle of the Palestinians.

The end of the journals coincided with the so called Years of Lead where the regime of Morocco’s previous monarch, Hassan II cracked down on his domestic enemies and rivals who had sought to launch a coup, increased repression at home against domestic critics and pursued Morocco’s claim over the abandoned Spanish colony in the Western Sahara. Since Hassan II’s death in 1999 his successor, Mohammed VI has presided over a liberalization that has seen the return of figures like Abdellatif Laâbi and Abraham Serfaty to Morocco from exile. In Laâbi’s case it was for visits. Serfaty has sought to resume his political activities as both an advisor to Mohammed VI and as a gadfly to the government.

As a resource this anthology is an invaluable contribution to scholars and researchers. But, beyond those obvious audiences, I think policy makers and the general public should take an interest in reading it. This is because the view of “North Africa” or the “Middle East” is, from so many vantage points, constricted, blinkered even. This is particularly the case if the viewer is in the United States. World news stories for the Middle East and North Africa in the New York Times today (September 21) include articles about arming Syrian Kurds, maintaining the cease-fire in Syria, and the appeal to religion as a way to offset the Muslim Brotherhood in upcoming elections in Jordan. There were apparently no newsworthy events in Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria or Morocco in the last twenty-four hours or so. Those issues that are covered are important, each with critical implications not least for the people in those countries. But they present a partial view of a region whose attributes can be reduced to war, terror and Islam.

Even if the selection process undertaken by Harrison and Villa-Ignacio had been less excellent, this anthology would still have been extraordinarily valuable for introducing English speaking readers to the multi-cultural, cosmopolitan and polyvocal world of Morocco that is presented. Furthermore this represents an extraordinarily welcome chance to be introduced to a Middle East/North Africa where the political struggle is defined by aesthetic conflicts over the meaning of words and the meaning of writing and painting, and how these choices work towards decolonizing culture. This is a refreshing shift in perspective from the more mainstream discussions of Middle East/North Africa politics with its emphasis on conflicts grounded in oppression and terror.

Sally Mann, Virginia at 4, 1989. Source: phillips.com

(١)

مدخل

إشارة مرور

ملصقات

جدار فصل

قصر جاسر

ملحمة أمل

مخيم عزة

خبز

زبالة أمم متحدة لتشغيل لاجئين

شارع جديد

حجارة بناء

حصمة، رمل، جرّافة

جرافيتي

سيارات سيارات سيارات

مطاعم مطاعم مطاعم

رهبان دير

حراس مهد

بوليس سياحي

عنف

أمن

قصر رئاسة

بنك

شمس

ليمون

بيت

(٢)

وفي محاولاتنا المتفاوتة

نستجدي أقدارنا

مدركين أننا سنُهزَم

فالله

والآلهة

والجن

والملائكة والشياطين

والسلطان

والسجان

في اجتماع مغلق

طارئ

ومستمر

(٣)

كنت طلبت من صديقتي المؤمنة اصطحابي إلى قداس دفن المسيح. لم أدخل الكنيسة لحضور قداس إرادياً منذ زمن بعيد. أصعد جنبها في سيارة “الأونروا” التي أسميها الدبابة لكبر حجمها. تقودنا مسرعة إلى حضرة الرب.

كأن الوقت تسمّر. وجوه العجائز نفسها تبحلق في الداخل والخارج، تعطي إشارة القبول أو الرفض. نجلس في مقاعدنا وتبدأ راهبة الوردية بصلوات ما قبل القداس ليكف الناس عن الثرثرة. كما قبل ثلاثين عاماً، أخاف الراهبات، “راهبات الوردية” خاصة. فأنت لا تعلم متى ستفقد واحدة منهن عقلها لتصفع أحدهم كفاً بلا إحم ولا دستور.

كيف جلست وحدها المدينة الكثيرة الشعب

كيف صارت كأرملة العظيمة في الأمم

السيدة في البلدان صارت تحت الجزية

تبكي في الليل بكاء ودموعها على خديها

ليس لها معز من كل محبيها

ازدحم المكان أسرع مما تخيلت. دخل الكشافة في محاولة لفرض نظام ما. لحظات ويبدأ القدّاس. فوضى. أتفحص الزاوية المخصصة للجوقة لأتأكد من وجود “ميس لوريت”، فيروز مدينتي.

آه هي هناك! تشبه نفسها قبل أربعين عاماً. نفس الأيقونات أيضاً. أراني شبلة في الكشافة أنتقد الكاهن كلما قرأ نصًا يذكر فيه إسرائيل.

يا أورشليم

يا أورشليم

ارجعي الى الرب إلهك

بخشوع تام تتّبع صديقتي القراءات والمزامير. يضاف كرسي بلاستيكي بجانبي. يلتصق بي مصلٍ جديد. يعطس في يده مرارًا. أصلي ألا يطلب الكاهن منا مصافحة بعضنا البعض. أركع هربًا من الاحتمال. أفكر في “الإيبولا”، كيف يمكن أن تقضي على جميع المؤمنين.

أنا هو الرجل الذي رأى مذلة بقضيب سخطه

قادني وسيرني في الظلام لا نور

أبلى لحمي وجلدي

كسر عظامي

بنى علي وأحاطني بعلقم ومشقة

في وعظته يحث الكاهن الرعية على حمل صليبها. يذكر داعش مراراً: ”داعش تكسر صليبنا ولكن في كل واحد منا داعش صغير”. أبونا! أبونا لحظة، شوف، تفرج علينا، كل واحد منا يحمل صليباً أكبر وأثقل مما يحتمل. يتابع الكاهن: “كل واحد فينا يرفض الصليب”. أبونا! أرجوك أنا مش داعش. ولا في داخلي داعش صغير. يكمل: “كل واحد فينا يرفض الألم”. أبونا، أرجوك أبونا. استنى شوي. ما تخلط شعبان برمضان…

يا شعبي

ماذا صنعت بك

وبما أحزنتك

أجبني

يستعد الكشافة لحمل تابوت المسيح والقيام بجنازة رمزية في ساحة الكنيسة. يتجمع المؤمنون حول التابوت ويخرجون. تفرغ الكنيسة إلا من بعض العجائز وصديقتي وأنا. صوت خافت ينادي اسمي.

“كيفك”؟

“عرفتك من عيون أمك.”

“كيف الخليج”؟

“بس ولد واحد عندك”؟

“تزوجوا خواتك”؟

تقترب منا راهبة الوردية. يخفق قلبي بقوة. تذكرنا بصوتها الصارم إننا في حضرة المسيح الرب. أشكرها لإنقاذها لي من كل قلبي.

أنا الأم الحزينة

وما من يعزيها

تقرع أجراس الحزن. يعود موكب الجنازة إلى الكنيسة.

يتصدره علم فلسطين ونساء يلبسن الأسود. يتجمهرون عند الهيكل. وهي اللحظة التي ينسحب فيها ممثل السلطة الوطنية ومستشاره. يعلن الكاهن دفن المسيح.

طرق أورشليم نائحة

وجميع أبوابها متهدمة

كهنتها متنهدون

وعذاراها متحسرات

وهي في مرارة

يتدافع المصلون لأخذ الورد عن تابوت المسيح. “أنا كنت بنت الرعية”: هكذا أعرف نفسي للكاهن وهو يعطيني وردتين. يدعوني لصلاة الغد الساعة السابعة مساء. أبتسم، أو نبتسم.

ألحق بصديقتي قبل أن تغادر بدبابتها الأممية. تسألني عن شعوري. أعترف إنني سعيدة بدفن المسيح.

هذا هو اليوم الذي صنعه الرب فلنفرح ولنتهلل به.

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قد أقضم قطعة شمس

كي لا تموت النار بداخلي

وقد أبلع بحرًا هائجًا

حتى لا يهدأ غضبي

وأستسلم لجميع الاحتمالات

لو أراك بلا قيود

(٥)

جميع الأحرف طلاسم

والكلمات ألغاز

بين الألف والياء

استعارات وكنايات وتورية

البداية والنهاية

المكان والزمان

العاشق والمعشوق والوطن

أحجيات أحجيات أحجيات

(٦)

في البدء كان المشمش

البيت الأول

صليُ الأرض

وأصوات “الطزيز“

في المشمش

أول الصيف وقصص الحب الأفلاطونية

كلاب الحارة المتعبة وجيرانها المزعجون

في المشمش

صباحات خضراء صفراء عسلية

وبائع البوظة المتجول ينادي وقت العصر

رائحة السكر يحترق

أطفال يلهون في تراب

وأمي تعد القهوة

والحليب والشاي

أمي دائمًا

أكبر الخيانات وأعنف الخسارات وأطول اغتراب

في المشمش

(٧)

أنام وأحلم. حلم لا يليق بالثوار (هكذا سيقال). أمارس الحب على ناصية طريق. تقاطع باب العمود على الأغلب. لا أرى وجه حبيبي ولا أسمع له أنينًا. شاحنات ومجنزرات تمر من جانبنا. نرتعش وكأن ريح صيف أخذتنا. أقطع الشارع مسرعة. ألوح له بيدي. أرى وجهه الهارب من بعيد. لا شيء فيه يشبهني. أحس بنهم للأشياء. أجلس على حافة الطريق. أرقب تزاحم البشر. وأحلم أني في حلمي أحمل بحسن.

أشعث. يولد في العشرين. لا يعرف غير أمه والشارع. نمشي سوياً نحو البيت. يحدثني بولع عن المعركة. لم نستسلم. يضحك. أعترف له بخوفي. يعد لي الشاي. ألم أسفل بطني يجبرني على أخذ هيئة جنين. يغطيني. يهدهدني كطفلة. أنتم لم تعرفوا الفرح. فُطِمتم على الخوف. أنام على وقع صوته. طلعات غارات وهمية. اختراق لحاجز الصوت يوقظني. مازال الوقت صامتاً في هذا المكان.

أقلب بين المحطات الفضائية. أخجل من تفاوت الموقف. أشرع في الترتيب. هذا ما أفعله في العادة لطرد شبح ما. كل شيء في مكانه. إلا أنا.

أتذكر أن فلسطين ما زالت على قائمة الأولويات.

ألعن اليقين والمكان. ولا ألعن الزمن هذه المرة.

ألعن اليقين والمكان. ولا ألعن الزمن هذه المرة.

(٨)

أكتب لك وأنا أفهم لماذا عليها أن تكون رسالة

مساحة إضافية للتخبط

وفضح الذات

أو موت

لكنها اليوم حياة

لا علم لي

أما بعد،

دخنت كل أيام العيد السعيد ومش سعيدة طبعاً

هذا الخراء الإنساني حكم مؤبد علينا

ولا أعرف إن كان أي منا نجح في تفاديه دون أن يفقد حساً معيناً أو أحاسيس كثرة

أنا كنت هؤلاء؟ وماذا أصبحت؟

البرم (الحديث الكثير) لا سؤال فيه

إما أن يكون أو لا يكون

بِسكُت ولا أفتح فمي بكلمة

وبس بِحس بـألم

ليش إحنا اللي نعزّل؟

ليش ما الأقلية ما تروح تنتحر أو تلاقي حد يقتلها؟

عندي رغبة في وقوع قنبلة ذرية على جماعة المثقفين

هذه رغبة حقيقية عندي تجاه العالم

لم أعد أرى أي حاجة للنقاش

هو يا العالم شايف

يا ما بده يشوف

غير هذا لا وجود لاحتمالات

عزمني جاري عنده على العشاء

وكان عازم أصدقاء له أنا ما بعرفهم

أول مرة بحس إنه ما عندي رغبة أضيف شي

أو حتى أختلف

أبدًا ما كان في رغبة

اجتاحني شعور بفقدان أمل… حلو

ممكن يعني انبسطت أن أراهم في الجحيم

كيف أنت على صح وهم على غلط؟

الحقيقة أنه لا شيء

بالمعنى العام

نحن نعوم ونغوص حتى نجد هذا الشيء وسط هذه الخرابة التي اسمها وطن وشعب والله

هو لو الله والشعب بلا أوطان كان كان شي حقيقي

الاستطراد هو الداعي

عزيزي

أكتب لك لأضبط إيقاع روحي

تروح وترجع وهي في نفس المكان. ثابتة…

ولكن الإيقاع يصمت أو يخف أو يضرب حامي…

حامي أيوا لا تستعمل هذه الكلمة

من مدة لم يفرغ رأسي

وهو فارغ الان

كأني استسلمت

أحسست بفقْأ طبلة

أشعر أني مدينه لشخص ما

ربما أنت

لأني بعيدة عن الشأن العام

أو بالأحرى عن السياسة بمعناها الضيق

لا أدّعي أنها لا تعنيني

ولكن تعنيني بطرق مختلفة

توجد مساحة للتخفيف من جلد الذات أو الانتباه للذات

أعترف أني أجد نفسي أشكك في الفائدة من هذا الشيء

ولكن بذات الوقت أستمتع بهذه المساحة

مازالت قواعد الجبهة وقوانينها العقيمة ناخرة عظامي

“إحنا العمال إحنا إحنا الفلاحين

منخوض النضال إحنا إحنا الكادحيين”

لا ندم

وممكن أعمل ذات الخيارات لو أُعطيت الفرصة

بس ممكن أبحث عن حالي أبكر

ابعث لي صورًا

بدي أشوف

مع أني أفضّل السمع على الشوف

واللمس على الذوق

والشم على الجميع

عاريةٌ تمامًا من كل شيء

(٩)

سأحرث كل الأماكن وأرحل

من معصرة روحك

وخمارة جسدك

سأسكر رمقًا

بين كفيك سأودع كلي

سيمضي كل الوقت

وأنا وأنت

في كل الأماكن سنكون

(١٠)

أبحث عن أسباب الوجع. أعرق، أسعل، أحس بالدوار ويغمى علي لساعة. صوت التلفاز وضحكات نديم وهو يشاهد برامجه المفضلة توقظني. أعاود لملمة أطرافي وأُجلس جسدي لعلي أصح. أرفع شاشة الحاسوب وأنقر عناوين المواقع الإخبارية التي اعتدت أن أتصفحها يوميًا. لم يحدث أي جديد. نفس العناوين لنفس الأحداث والشخصيات. الرئيس يعلن، والوزير يقرر، و“المثقف” ينتقد، والجماهير عليه العوض ومنه العوض.

غصة في حلقي، وطعم المرار حاد في فمي. أتواصل مع عدد قليل من الأصدقاء لعل أخبارهم تضفي نوعًا من الراحة والطمأنينة على قلبي.  أخبارهم كما كانت بالأمس وقبل الأمس. وظيفة جديدة، زواج، أولاد، عطلة صيفية، مشروع في طريقه إلى الانهيار، رحيل إلى بلد جديد، نزاع عائلي على إرث، قريب على حافة الموت، موت عزيز، سيارة جديدة، مشاركة بمؤتمر عالمي يبحث في موضوع عالمي قديم، خيانة، طلاق. قائمة لا منتهية من الأخبار ذاتها.

أنزل من فراشي. ألصق وجهي بزجاج نافذتي التي لا تفضي لشيء. عينان فارغتان تنظران إلي. أتجاهلهما. بارد جدًا هذا الزجاج. عامل آسيوي لم يتجاوز الثلاثين من العمر ينبش في حاوية القمامة. لابد أن الرائحة قاتلة في هذا الحر الخانق. درجة الحرارة تشير إلى ٤٥ درجة مئوية. لا أرى الشمس. والسماء ملبدة وكأنها حبلى بالمطر. تمامًا كما حاوية القمامة. حمل كاذب.

تجبرني رنة الهاتف المحمول على الرد. لم يعد لي شأن عاطفي يربطني بعملي. لبنى على الخط تطلب المساعدة. أجاوبها بكل ثقة ومعرفة. أقفل الخط وأتجه للمطبخ.

ماء وليمون ذابل وقطعة جبن كل ما احتوت ثلاجتي. أحضّر القهوة لنفسي وأزحف مخزية إلى أرض المعركة. لا جيوش أو جنرالات. فراشي غارق بكتب مقدسة وغير مقدسة، برسائل حب وخطابات عداء. يحرسه حاسوب، ودفتر ملاحظات وهاتفي الصغير الخاص. أفكر بخطواتي التالية. علي أن أعرف كيف انتهت معارك الفارس والطواحين. أغوص بعالمي الافتراضي. رسوم كاريكاتورية ونكات. مقالات سخيفة للمعارضة والموالاة وخزعبلات وعناوين ورزنامات وبرامج للسفر وأخرى للمبيت. لا شيء فيه مستحيل عالمي هذا، لكن لا شيء فيه يطال. مكان اللا مكان يقتلني فهو وحده مالك الفصول والسهول والإضراب والعصيان واللهو والإدمان.
أتمنى أن يُقطَع التيار. أخاف. أقرر أن أغفو على أمل أن أستيقظ على حلم آخر. أسمع صوت محمد منير يقول “اوعى تراهن ع الزمن، عمر الزمن ما كمل الحدوتة”، أعدل عن نومي. أنادي نديم، نجلس سويًا نبحث بكتب التاريخ عن انتصارات الشعوب لعلنا نتعلم شيئًا.

(١١)

لا أعلم إن كنت سأتعلّم

كيف أصد وجعًا يتربص بقلبي

وسيل الحنين على عتبة ذاكرتي ينتظر لحظة ضعف/قوة

ليجتاح بعدها كامل جسدي

لا أعلم إن كنت سأتعلّم

ولكني أعلم

لن أتردد يومًا في العيش

بالسؤال

والحيرة

والغيرة

والفرحة

واللهفة

والصفوة

والنشوة

والقوة

والقهر

والبعد

(١٢)

قد تكون فكرة القومية العربية هي تمامًا فكرة قيام دولة إسرائيل

صنعة ومشروع

وقد تكون الانهيارات التي نشهد مناسبة نعيد فيها رسم من نكون وعن ماذا ندافع

لكن أن نستغل الانهيارات لتصفية مشاعر ثأرية وقبلية وقومية

قد يكون هذا تبريرًا لكل ما يحصل وسيحصل لنا في عالمنا العربي

(١٣)

كنا وكأنه من زمان

نلعب “أميرتي”

أحط لك مكياج

وألبسك وردًا وخرزًا

ثم آخذ لك صورة

كنا نقعد على مرجيحة بلكوننا العالي

أنت حاملة الناضور

وأنا مسطّلة بالمنظر

كنا نراقب سطح حبيب متخيل اسمه “طيزه قمر”

كنا نلقط حَنّونًا ووردًا أصفر

كنتِ حافية

وبين العشب كنا نخفي أسرارًا

كنا نحكي لحد ما الديك يزهق ويصيح

والشمس تطلع من البحر الميت ورطوبة البلد تبلّل حراماتنا

كانت تلال قشر البزر ووتيرة تقشيرها على طاولة المطبخ مقياسًا لحجم مواضيعنا:

الوظيفة: أوقية

العائلة: أوقيتان

الحُب: كيلو + ألواح شكولاته

كنا نلعب “أميرتي”

وأصورك

(١٤)

كل يوم يزيد فيه الرحيل يصبح طعم الموت أقرب

تصبح المساحات أضيق والأفكار مشتتة تبحث عن منفى يعدّ لحفلة اللقاء عدة

وأعرف كما عرفت أمي أن بريق عيني انطفأ، أن موعدًا لنا سيكون كمن يحلم برقصة سُكْر فوق قبر أحبائه

جنونية، أنانية، خرافية لا تحسب فيها الساعات أو عدد وقع الخطوات

كم كان لو كان لي كم كان

(١٥)

كنت بحثت عن صديق ليغفر لي ذنوبي ويساعدني على استقبال ما تم شحنه مما تبقى مني

اختزلت حياتي

كل ما تصورت أن أحتاج ملابس خارجية وداخلية

وكم أعري نفسي في هذا اللا شيء الجديد وأشعر بالبرد

“منفى هي الأرض التي تنأى بنا نحو الغريب”

لم افهمها من قبل لكنني أعجبت بخالد فأحببت الكلام

صدى الأغنيات الآن يدوي كطلعات غارات وكقنابل مضيئة

“منفى هي الروح التي تنأى عن أرضنا نحو الحبيب”

وكيف يكون المنفى بلا أرض ولا حبيب

يصعب البقاء والفراق

يصعب الضحك والبكاء

تصعب المزحة الخفيفة وأنا أتوق أن أكون فيك وأن تكون أنت في

تصبح جميع الحالات عبثية

واقعية

لا شيء فيها رومانسيًا وجميع الخطوات أبجدية

وأما بعد

وماذا بعد

اقلعني منك

أعرف أنك حاولت وفشلت

أقلعك مني

سأحاول وإن فشلت في الانتحار سأقول:

لا حزن لا حسرة

من شدة حبي

وحزني

(١٦)

ونحن ندرك حزننا العميق

نرغم أجسادنا على المرور عنوة عبر أنفاق لا نهائية

حيث يلتهي العالم في إحكام الخطط للقضاء على أولادنا

س: أنت مبدع عربي؟

ج: أنا؟ أعوذ بالله. أنا مجرم والحمد لله. الله انعم ولطف.

(١٧)

ندرك جميعنا أكبر الاحتمالات

صديقاته ينذرن صدورهن وأفخاذهن مدى الحياة بشرط ظهوره

“ستكون أمي أجمل اللاجئات إذا أُجبِرنا على الرحيل” هكذا ذكرهن

تصغر الشاشات ويكبر العبث

فليسقط الطاغية

(١٨)

تسريحة قديمة

مومياء بأظافر فاقعة

آيات على وتيرة واحدة

كراسي لا تأبه بحجم جالسيها

طقس قابل للهطول

إشارات ضوئية معطلة

قُمع سجائر

كتاب مل الوقوف على الصفحة ذاتها

صبية يشكون الحب

تخمة

قيء

احمرار العين

وجع يضرب الساق

تشنج عضلة المؤخرة

عقدة لسان

إسهال في الأفكار

اتصال إلى غرفة طوارىء نائمة

عذراء فاجرة

زهرة في أرض مهجورة

براز في الحفر الارتوازية

فقأ طبلة

بغاء سلطة

انحياز دين

بحث عن غرفة نوم لبائعة هوى

استحمام في بحر لا موج فيه

شرب كأس وسكي رخيص على الطابق ٦٣

ابتسام في حفل استقبال

مقارعة أخرق

جميعها هذرمة

(١٩)

هكذا تكون الأوطان مطلع كل صباح

الثورة لن تبدأ قط

(٢٠)

بعت روحي لعشرين تاجرًا

اشتروا بها صاروخًا

صناعة محلية

بعتها مقابل صور لمدرسة تُقصَف

وأمهات يَفقدن عقولهن

بعت روحي ولم أر

غير نسخ مكررة لآيات وأحاديث

يُخِجل الشيطان ترتيلها

بعتها ولعنت كل ذلك التهليل والعويل

بينما هم يشترون صاروخًا

ليوجهوه إلى صدري ما إن أُعلن

إن فلسطين ليست قضية

(٢١)

صباحات خضراء صفراء عسلية

في المشمش

رائحة السكر يحترق

أطفال يلهون في تراب

وأمي تعد القهوة

والحليب والشاي

أمي

في المشمش

أمي دائمًا

Source: 1stdibs.com

I make this many mistakes 

just to be sure that one morning

I will cross over to the cafe

without them being counted.

“I wish you were here”

is not such a cliche

considering it is the point of my life.

I hate Freud for practical reasons,

Marx for aesthetic ones.

But Hegel – he sneaks me the kind of theology

that keeps you going behind your mother’s back.

Kafka laughs his bitter Jew’s laugh

every time I complain to him about you.

In the morning I cross over to the cafe

carrying a bag with a laptop inside it,

my mistakes’ register.

Ashley Gilbertson, from “Nigerian Calamity”. Lagos, 2016. Source: viiphoto.com

They were telling me of the slanderous shadows of daylight when I started to tell them about the terrible agony of night, then they just turned their backs and left. ‘Go home,’ they said, not even looking at me. Astonished, I stomped my feet until the police came and took me to the station. ‘Show us what you’re hiding in your pockets, please,’ the police said. So I took out Regret, which has a red, tall nose. Then Shame, with its round belly and inverted navel. Followed by Fear, swaddled in black velvet like some demonic baby. At last I took out Sadness, with its vulgar face. Then the police turned away, arghing in disgust, unable to face the vulgarity of my Sadness.