I love you

 

“I love you” statured the man while breathing heavily.
The heavy silence was interrupted by the voice of the “God of Wisdom”, “this is not something to be said lightly…” with the same calm tone, and without the faintest smile, he added, “love is coupled by responsibility”.

A few weeks ago, the man was wondering aimlessly. An ordinary man with more than his share of sadness, who wasn’t aware of where this path may lead. The “God of Wisdom” was bored of the abode of Gods, his perfect world, and decided to visit the land where men lived, fought and died. It is not really known how the two stumbled into each other, magic? Destiny? Or it was just a mistake?

The man saw glimpses of a world he never knew, the world of grace, the world of beauty and the world of love. These were the realms of Gods, where the “God of wisdom” lived, where he really belonged. Overwhelmed by sheer happiness, the man forgot who he was, and came closer to the “God of Wisdom” and said with a faint tone. “I love you…..I am sure”. Silence, cruel silence was all what surrounded the man. Unable to control himself, he whispered, “I love you”.

It took the “God of Wisdom” some time before shaking his head and saying, “love comes with consequences…” he sighed, stared at the man, and with the kindest tone, he asked, “are you willing to pay?” the man murmured in fear, “the eternal punishment?”. The “God of Wisdom” gazed at the horizon and said calmly, “if this is how you see it, then yes, this is what you have to pay”

No one told us how many hours did they spend that night, what did they say or how they parted, all what we know that there were lessons they both had to learn. The man learned to cry while the “God of wisdom” learned that the world of men is a place that even a “God” could not change its rules.

The road to Beruit

 

My excitement about attending Fairouz’s concert coupled with the feelings around returning back to Aleppo made me a bit hasty and I skimmed through the monuments on my way. To get myself ready for the long journey, I took a quick shower, grabbed my bag, had a snack, bought a load of desserts and waited in the bus station with a victorious smile. The bus came on time; I checked that I still had my two passports and sat comfortably next to a window. I looked at the green landscape under the last rays of sun while trying to sort a quick plan for the night, as I was supposed to reach Beirut after midnight. The bus was quiet and the passengers looked serious, or maybe I was in ecstasy. After a while, the bus stopped in complete darkness at what turned out to be the border and everyone handed their passport to an expressionless officer. He flipped through my empty British passport quickly, and then asked for Syria’s entry visa. With all the confidence in the world, I indifferently replied that I didn’t enter the country by that passport; the officer came closer, and was expecting more elaboration. He started to yell without wrinkling his marble face with a single grimace, “How did you enter the country?”. Again, and as coolly as possible, I showed him the visa stamp in my Egyptian passport. He disappeared with my passport – I held the British one with me – and the passengers started to murmur. Within 10 minutes his head popped in the bus to shout my name, I followed him to an office, where an old fat officer considered my story a rescue from another dull night in the middle of nowhere. While I was explaining the whole tale, I realized that the bus was moving, I tried to ask the officer to stop the bus; till that point I was thinking that it was a silly misunderstanding and I’d be back on my way. The old officer stood up, raised his voice in a melodramatic way and informed me that I might never enter Lebanon. He tried to explain that the Syrian border was not the problem, he could easily kiss my Egyptian passport an exit stamp, but the Lebanese brothers wouldn’t let me in with a passport other than the one I left Syria with. All of this seemed illogical, the guy was irritating, a symbol of bureaucracy, dictatorship and stupidity. I told him about the confirmations I had gotten from the Lebanese Embassy in Cairo, then he lost his temper, started to curse and told me to go and beg the guys on the other side before he stamped my passport, as he was sure that I would need to be in Syria and did not want to stamp my passport twice. I was accompanied by another officer, a skinny teenager, who neither cared nor was able to understand my situation. There were only a few meters separating the two countries or the two offices, I couldn’t see anything in that dark night apart from dense reeds and I can still remember how humid that area was. At the Lebanese border I found the most handsome and well-built officer on earth who told me the same piece of information. I was mad and kept repeating “Lebanon and Syria are two separate countries, aren’t they?”, no matter how provocative I was, Mr. Lebanon did not respond. I waited for a while expecting that it was someone’s big mistake, but nothing was going to change, there wasn’t even a Lebanese Embassy in Syria, as the latter was treating the former as a semi-autonomous region. The gelled head was not offended by my questions, he was smart enough to suggest that I could return to Aleppo or Damascus and catch a flight. The officer accompanying me started whining, as he had to run to his fat boss. “Ma beyseer tomro’ men hown” is what the Lebanese model repeated; informing me that I could never cross the border without a visa on my Egyptian passport, or an entry and exit visa on my British one.  I was defeated by Arab politics, the old fat officer was happy to prove his point and at that point I was sure that the concert was gone. Plan B would never work, Plan C would be very expensive. I was extremely mad, remembering how spontaneously I had started my trip, and how lucky I had been to find a ticket. The bored officers ordered me to wait on a bench till they found a car to take me back to Aleppo. I spent hours and hours on that border with the humidity and jealousy killing me. I was able to see Mr. Lebanon moving around his office; so Lebanon was a place guarded by a supermodel and could only be reached by plane, what a fairy tale.

To cut a long sad story short, I spent the whole night waiting for a car to take me away from the concert and as soon as I reached Aleppo I jumped in a bus heading to Damascus. From there and without hesitating I took a car to Jordan and I spent the whole day traveling with a defeated and grim face. By the time Fairouz was supposed to start singing I was sitting on one of Amman Central Station’s benches, waiting for an Aqaba bus.

From Spaghetti in Harar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year

 Happy New Year 

How I wish that it will be happy, at least happier than 2022! Oh 2022, what a year! I have to admit that I hated this year. It was a year full of stagnation, and one has to try staying numb watching the days and weeks pass by without doing anything to understand how painful stagnation is, how sad, how bitter, how humiliating stagnation is. 

Here I am, sitting like a rusty old wreck, trying to put on my usual worn out smile, throw a few sarcastic comments to continue my role as the cheerful clown. But even professional clowns get drained, fail to keep smiling, hate the eco of their fake laughs and just want to hide for a few decades. 

No new year resolutions. No optimistic plans and no enthusiastic declarations. I will keep gliding, hopefully I can. I told you, there are no plans, but still a faint hope of survival, or a dignified end. As a natural born quitter I have always dreamt of dramatic ends. I believed that I am entitled to have such closure to this phase of my life, or to this life. Entitled? Am I even entitled to anything? Entitled or not, this is a big question that lingered in my head for so long. Are we really entitled to be and to have? Then we are destined to fight for our dreams and hopes. Or aren’t we entitled at all and thus we should be grateful for every breath and bite that keep us alive. Alive? There is a legendary secret about life, and unfortunately I know how to keep myself distracted to avoid questioning myself. How many (I)s did I write till now? May be this is the real problem? My obsession of (I), (me) and (myself). May be it’s not an obsession but a sense of shame, (I) let (me) down, more than I can count or recall. Throughout the previous decades I have been carrying huge relics of my failures, and believe me they are heavy. 

Am I bitter? How I wish? I’m beyond bitterness, seeing myself being pulled away from the good days, the cheerful gatherings and the naïve excitements. I was told that I just don’t know how to be thankful to god, I have a problem with gratitude they said. With no energy or will to argue, I shook my shoulders and murmured something that sounded as if I was convinced. 

Can’t deny that I tried to resurrect myself every single morning. I look at the mirror, greet the Sisyphus tangled within me, and start the day. Art saved me, I have to confess, at least helped me to survive. I dove in different realms, more colorful, more vibrant and even more humane. Melodies of old songs, eloquent dialogue in a novel or even an intricate pattern all fill me with profound joy. I feel lighter, happier as if I’m the only one capable of connecting to such mysterious talents. 

Happy New Year they say, and Happy New Me I say, I wish and devoutly pray. 

And what is love ?

Who knows? But let me try to understand it or at least talk about it. Love….. I used to say among my loud laughs, “ if you smile as soon as you remember someone then that’s love”. Ok, May be that was a relevant definition at some point. When life was simple and to be honest, I was always smiling back then. So what is love? I won’t mention the butterflies in my stomach, ha ha. And I won’t also mention the sudden bitter tears that used to intrude into my quiet moments in the most unexpected ways. 

Longing! May be longing is easier to describe. Longing simply means that I miss living and reliving specific moments with someone, the laughs, the songs, the excitement and the care. Care? Love is care! May be. I feel lost, caring as a feeling is there, of course caring is one of the main ingredients of that magical recipe that people naively call love. However caring always seeps away, it does this gradually as it is replaced by the humiliating fact that we became for granted or that, simply we are done with that “love” phase. 

People always speak about the pain of love, I agree, it painful, severely painful. It is elusive, once you feel it, it fades quickly to leave you with memories of exaggerated happiness and pleasure. 

May be that what it really is, a mirage, an illusion or even a mere dream that we try to create for some time, a few moments, or days or years. May be we have to appreciate these random feelings, cherish them and pray to enjoy the taste of love once more. 

Hannibal

 Hannibal

Once upon a time in the great city of Carthage, it was believed that the gods were walking leisurely along the coast. Fascinated by the city and its palaces, the green mountains surrounding it and the happiness and joy of its people, they exchanged statements of praise. These eloquent phrases annoyed one of the gods, who apparently was bad tempered on that sunny day. He stopped, faced his divine companions and screamed in anger, “I’ll curse all the men of Carthage from this day till the end of time”. shocked by such unexpected wrath, they all quickly tried to bestow blessings and save the innocent city and its people. One god gifted them with courage, another gave them wisdom, a goddess was generous and granted them beauty and charm. Gods kept offering the Carthaginians with all the great deeds, but apparently the curse was strong and effective. It was destined for every son of that beautiful city to carry his huge share of blessings and yet he had to bear a faint trace of the eternal curse.

I met Hannibal, not the famous Hannibal, not the one who dragged the African Elephants to the Italian Alps. I met Hannibal, a handsome man with sharp smart eyes, a perfect Roman nose and a magical wide smile. Sitting nonchalantly like the king of all kings staring at the horizon in that balmy night. I came closer, saluted him timidly. His eyes were radiating with confidence, joy and mystery. I stuttered while he was calmly drowning me in an ocean of questions, assumptions and accusations. His face with glowing with a charismatic flair as I was becoming a bit tense, no, not a bit, I was starting to panic. Then Hannibal smiled, paused, starred at my eyes and asked, “Who are you?”.

A thousand and one graves suddenly opened in my soul, and all the sadness seeped. Numbed by unbearable pain, how could I answer that Carthaginian hero, or even hide my tears. Surprised by my agony, weakness and despair, he looked at me closely, and with a caring voice, he asked about my story. Throughout Hannibal’s dark eyes I saw a lifetime of joy, love and success, all far away, all in distant lands, and unfortunately all in previous years. Egoistic or rational, he was honest and blunt. Read my fortune, knew what will I face and simply understood the pain. Before uttering a word, he shushed me and stood up, walked and told me to follow. We walked in silence. I followed him obediently, till he stopped, faced me and said in the saddest tone,” it will never work….” He sighed bitterly and said, “believe me, it will never work”. The stars died as his words echoed in a murky sky, I gasped, escaping a bitter taste of the color yellow and trembled as he moved away.

“Hannibal…please wait” these words were never heard, these words were never said.

 

 

The journey

 I needed the journey 

I missed the road

The feeling of being lost, totally lost….

In these few days, my looks wont matter, my obligations can be forgotten, my worries and fears will give me a break, May be even my ego will dwarf a little bit. 

I’m there, totally there…..

Immersed in the moment, passing along the paths that were carved by thousands and thousands of travelers. 

My breaths merge with theirs, and my tiny stories find their place in the huge and rich mosaic of all the passers by

Lonely? Never alone? Not even a single moment. I carry my beloved with me, they guard me, I even see their faces reflected on other people, the strangers whom we will never meet again. 

I needed the journey

I missed the road 

I longed to meet me again 

Your silence

                            

 They say some men are gifted with words, but you are gifted with silence. Your silence, what a mixture of wisdom, indifference and aggression! May be it’s your way to stop the marching  of my already defeated army.
 I know that I should surrender, I should have surrendered more than a decade ago. Yet the half hero that I failed to be, became addicted to grief, pain and despair. Is my salvation tied to your presence or disappearance, your words or silence?
Am I destined to decipher your silence, calculate the long, boring  and humiliating intervals between your few words?
You refused the throne, the crown and all the praise I could say, you refused everything but kept that strong mysterious thread of silence. 

Here I am, sitting alone, recalling your few words, remembering the sarcasm, the criticism and the accusations with a delusional mind. 

Here I am, sitting alone, lost in an eternal grey hue, somewhere far from purity yet not that close from the darkness of sins.

Here I am, sitting alone, dreaming of a different beginning, a new chance or even another life.