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New Egyptian ‘House of Translation’ to Launch October 31 أكتوبر 27, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 2:15 م

New Egyptian ‘House of Translation’ to Launch October 31.

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Merna and the Winding Ring Road أكتوبر 23, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 7:09 م

Merna and the Winding Ring Road

And Merna , of course, is me.  I put her on paper and watch. Sometimes, I complicate things around her. Sometimes the existing complications suffice.

Enjoying the privilege of having a driver that day, Merna decided to relax and forget about the congested traffic. It was clear that the way back from downtown to her suburb was to be a very long one. She never conceived why cars  had seemed to multiply unreasonably on the streets lately. Nothing that had to do with the semi absence or semi presence of the policemen, she thought. Every time she had to go downtown, she felt that the whole country was in a state of an internal immigration to…she could not figure out to where. But did she have to know? No one knew a thing for sure in Egypt those days. The whirlpool of ideas was clear in front of her now; threatening to devour her for the rest of her trip. She promised herself a treat, and a treat ought she to have.

She took the small, thin, bluish MP4 set– which gave her kids a big laugh at seeing it” Mum, that was long time ago!”– with the long-waited for surprise on it: famous American songs of the early eighties. She had them downloaded from the internet. She put on her big old—fashioned headphones; the ones that her son would refuse to look at for the size of them. Beside their comfortable curves outside the ears, and pillow-like surface, they ensured a maximized voice and a complete immersion in the world of the small MP4 because of their steady assured inflated position around the head. With the small painful ones inside the ear, you could never be sure when they would come out suddenly betraying you to a lunatic world outside; breaking your moment of perfect illusion.

With the first song, Merna’s ear fluttered ; she was thrown into the center of a whirlpool at once; “ Da Da, ooh/ Well my friends, time has come/ To raise the roof and have some fun/ Throw away the work to be done/let the music play on..play on play on…All Night Long” Oh! Lionel Richie. The first time she listened to it, with the whole world, was in  LA 1984 in the closing ceremony of the Olympic Games. The  memory brought her a gush of warmth and joy. The fascinating breath-taking organization, the joyful songs, feelings of liberty in the air, the magic of propaganda and the beauty of words; she remembered it all with the captivating call of the rhythms of the song. That time was young and care-free, just like what she was. Her father was still alive, young and assured. Egypt had just celebrated the complete liberation of Sinai. Mubarak was a hero. Nothing was heard of his family yet.  Hopeful Integrity was the word for the world of fourteen-year-old Merna.

Richie’s voice sounded like a shy seductive call, urging her to let go of all the cares and troubles. She felt Richie in her abdomen moving her thighs to waver in spite of her attempt not to attract the driver’s attention. She was anxious to engage in one dance with everybody on the road. She looked around. No hope! The road was extremely congested. All sorts of cars were around her, behind her, in front of her. She thought that if she dared to look up, she might be surprised to see cars above her! The eighty kilometer round-Cairo road ended in its very final exit as two-lane- road with all the various-sized trucks and vans and cars halting and waiting their turn to pass. That waiting was a three kilometer long and six lanes wide. The car was hardly moving at all. In fact, what it did was going and halting, going and halting. If she started to notice, she would end up with nausea.

          Richie’s voice and the music both raised in a frank call for dancing all night long. The Rhythms were sweet and captivating and whenever you surrendered to them and your inner organs commenced to throb, the sharp horns would trumpet  “ Tata ta-tata tata ta-tata” to shake you up to remind you that you had not indulged enough. More was still possible. Perhaps if she were in the Stadium that night, she would have taken her shoes off and danced barefoot on the grass of Los Angeles, the most Americanized part of America.

America, Oh,sweet America! It seemed a land of dreams to 14-year-old Merna who devoured every song and every movie and every article that were exported to her at a time when internet was a yet unknown idea and live broadcasting was saved to international football matches (The times of Barbaric living in her kids’ view!) She collected lyrics of songs and memorized them as a way of learning English. She had always had that fascination with the other; the different other. America was that other, alluring alien at that time and her way to decipher it was language. Being in America years later, she learned that language was never enough. Then, she came to look beyond America on the map. In fact, she left the  earthly map altogether and used the map of the distant stars and planets. Now, she was lost in another inner map. But that was another story.

On the road, the cars waited like” a throbbing engine”. Well, they were in fact throbbing engines; no need for metaphors here. In front of her was a truck. The numbers showed it was from Upper Egypt. She read what was written on the back without noticing she did. She always loved to do so. Truck drivers usually wrote interesting sayings on the back of their Lorries. That one wrote a prayer “ Oum ELnour” or the Mother of Light, who was, of course, Holy Mary . By writing her name only, he probably invoked her to protect him in his long journey. A poster of Jesus was stuck on the truck. She knew her heart was painfully sinking.

Back in the first half of the eighties, such posters were not born yet. She had all sorts of Coptic friends. In fact, she extremely liked the stories that Father Boutros told her as she, a little child then, sat in his lap and listened. Father Boutros was her mom’s best friend’s husband and a regular guest to their house. Later in her life she was startled to see posters of this kind and of many other kinds representing all types of fanaticism covering the backs of cars. But posters were the last thing she had to worry about then. Corpses in the Coptic hospital and the military hospital were right in front of her inward eyes now. It did not make a great difference now to know the end of the Maspero investigations. Her heart refused to wait for “ who was wrong and who was plotting against who”. The bodies were what mattered. The whirlpool of the song, this was what she needed to focus on, even to entreat. Before it ended, she pressed the repeat button quickly in fear.

Passing by three wide white circles on the road that hardly appeared from under the lined cars, she recognized them to be drawn for Mubarak’s helicopter to land in on the day of opening a new extension for the ring road. Very fond of bridges the man was. But his bridges never took him anywhere. They led to his own “self” not to other people, nor to other places. It was such a pity he was blind to the people. “ My people humble people who expect nothing”.  He could have made a greater country of Egypt and a greater president of himself to think in pragmatic way. But obviously he was blind altogether; even to himself. Merna chided herself for thinking of the word blind. She had many blind friends who usually led the way when she thought she had escorted them.

As if that road never ended.

Browsing the net on her mobile phone brought her one of her kids’ remarks “Mummy, when will you be really up-to-date and start using Iphone?”” DO I really need it?” “ Who doesn’t Mum!” How could she explain that that was not what she wanted to teach them? She wanted to implant compassion, sympathy and largeness of souls before having the Iphone or the I-pad or I-pod or God only knows the I-what.

“DA..DA…DA”

Suddenly, the image of a bloody crushed face surprised her eyes on her mobile screen; Kaddafi’s. Watching the violent movie of his assassination, a turmoil of emotions rose calmly in Merna’s heart. It was as if she had known it all the way; waited for it. But when it finally took place was expectedly unbearable. She was puzzled as to how to feel and what moral stance she ought to take. The man was a lunatic tyrant. He was a ruthless killer who deserved it in every sense of the word. But to encourage revengeful savagery in that way was to open hell. She awkwardly thought of her western friends; how would they react to that savagery. That would certainly smear the beauty of the Arab Spring; the nations’ sole pride in ages. But then to think of the West in that romantic way was to be unfair to one’s self. The Western governments let Kaddafi “be” as long as he kept the oil going to their factories regardless of the people’s rights or development. A long bloody history of Imperial exploitation passed in front of her eyes like a rusty old train.   

“Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!

          Merna’s logic gave her temporary comfort. “Eye of the Tiger” was being played now: ( Risisng up, back on the street/ Did my time, took myc chances/Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet/just a man and his will to survive….It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight/Rising up to the challenge of our rival/And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night/ And he’s watching us all in the eye of the tiger.)  The unease started again like a slow leakage from the kitchen tap. Violence could not justify violence in retaliation. That was the jungle life.

          OOOOps! She missed the right moment to press the repeat button. Tina Turner‘s voice flew in her ears “Out of the Runs/Out from the wreckage/ can’t make the same mistake this time/ We are the children/ The last generation/ We are the ones left behind/ And I wonder when we are ever gonna change/living under the fear/ till nothing else remains/ we don’t need another hero”. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Merna and the Winding Ring Road

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 7:08 م

Merna and the Winding Ring Road
Enjoying the privilege of having a driver that day, Merna decided to relax and forget about the congested traffic. It was clear that the way back from downtown to her suburb was to be a very long one. She never conceived why cars seemed to multiply unreasonably on the streets lately. Nothing that had to do with the semi absence or semi presence of the policemen, she thought. Every time she had to go downtown, she had felt that the whole country was in a state of an internal immigration to…she could not figure out to where. But did she have to know? No one knew a thing for sure in Egypt those days. The whirlpool of ideas was clear in front of her now; threatening to devour her for the rest of her trip. She promised herself a treat, and a treat ought she to have.
She took the small, thin, bluish MP4 set– which gave her kids a big laugh at seeing it” Mum, that was long time ago!”– with the long-waited for surprise on it: famous American songs of the early eighties. She had them downloaded from the internet. She put on her big old—fashioned headphones; the ones that her son would refuse to look at for the size of them. Beside their comfortable curves outside the ears, they ensured a maximized voice and a complete immersion in the world of the small MP4 because of their steady assured inflated position around the head. With the small ones inside the ear, you could never be sure when they would come out suddenly betraying you to a lunatic world outside; breaking your moment of perfect illusion.
With the first song, Merna’s ear fluttered ; she was thrown into the center of a whirlpool all too soon; “ Da Da, ooh/ Well my friends, time has come/ To raise the roof and have some fun/ Throw away the work to be done/let the music play on..play on play on…All Night Long” Oh! Lionel Richie. The first time she listened to it, with the whole world, was in LA 1984 in the closing ceremony of the Olympic Games. Oh, the memory brought her a gush of warmth and joy. The fascinating organization, the joyful songs, feelings of liberty in the air, the magic of propaganda and the beauty of words; she remembered it all with the captivating call of the rhythms of the song. That time was young and care-free, just like what she was. Her father was still alive, young and assured. Egypt had just celebrated the complete liberation of Sinai. Mubarak was a hero. Nothing was heard of his family yet. Hopeful Integrity was the word for the world of fourteen-year-old Merna.
Lionel’s voice sounded like a shy seductive call, urging her to let go of all the cares and troubles. She felt Richie in her abdomen moving her thighs to waver in spite of her attempt not to attract the driver’s attention. She was anxious to engage in one dance with everybody on the road. She looked around. The road was extremely congested. All sorts of cars were around her, behind her, in front of her. She thought that if she dared to look up, she might be surprised to see cars above her! The eighty kilometer round-Cairo road ended in its very final exit as two-lane- road with all the various-sized trucks and vans and cars halting and waiting their turn to pass. That waiting was a three kilometer long and six lanes wide. The car was hardly moving at all. In fact what it did was going and halting, going and halting. If she started to notice, she would end up with nausea.
Richie’s voice and the music both raised in a frank call for dancing all night long. The Rhythms were sweet and captivating and whenever you surrendered to them and your inner organs commenced to throb, the sharp horns would trumpet “ Tata ta-tata tata ta-tata” to shake you up to remind you that you had not indulged enough. More was still possible. Perhaps if she were in the Stadium that night, she would have taken her shoes off and danced barefoot on the grass of Los Angeles, the most Americanized part of America.
America, Oh! It seemed a land of dreams to 14-year-old Merna who devoured every song and every movie and every article that were exported to her at a time when internet was a yet unknown idea and live broadcasting was saved to international football matches ( The times of Barbaric living in her kids’ view!) She collected lyrics of songs and memorized them as a way of learning English. She had always had that fascination with the other; the different other. America was that other, alluring alien at that time and her way to decipher it was language. Being in America years later, She learned that language was never enough. Then, she came to look beyond America on the map. In fact, she left the map altogether and used the map of the distant stars and planets. Now, she was lost in another inner map. But that was another story.
On the road, the cars waited like” a throbbing engine”, well they were in fact throbbing engines; no need for metaphors here. In front of her was a truck. The numbers showed it was from Upper Egypt. She read what was written on the back without noticing she did. She always loved to do so. Truck drivers usually wrote interesting sayings on the back of their Lorries. That one wrote a prayer “ Oum ELnour” or the Mother of Light, who was of course Holy Mary . By writing her name only, he probably invoked her to protect him in his long journey. A poster of Jesus was stuck on the truck. She knew her heart was painfully sinking.
Back in the first half of the eighties, such posters were not born yet. She had all sorts of Coptic friends. In fact, she extremely liked the stories that Father Boutros told her as she, a little child then, sat in his lap and listened. Father Boutros was her mom’s best friend’s husband and a regular guest to their house. Later in her life she was startled to see posters of this kind and of many other kinds representing all types of fanaticism covering the backs of cars. But posters were the last thing she had to worry about then. Corpses in the Coptic hospital and the military hospital were right in front of her inward eyes now. It did not make a great difference now to know the end of the Maspero investigations. Her heart refused to wait for “ who was wrong and who was plotting against who”. The bodies were what mattered. The whirlpool of the song, this was what she needed to focus on, even to entreat. Before it ended, she pressed the repeat button quickly in fear.
Passing by three wide white circles on the road, She recognized them to be drawn for Mubarak’s helicopter to land in. Very fond of bridges the man was. But his bridges never took him anywhere. They led to his own “self” not to other people nor to other places. It was such a pity he was blind to the people. “ My people humble people who expect nothing”. He could have made a greater country of Egypt and a greater president of himself to think in pragmatic way. But obviously he was blind altogether; even to himself. Merna chided herself for thinking of the word blind. She had many blind friends who usually led the way when she thought she had escorted them.
As if that road never ended.
Browsing the net on her mobile phone brought her one of her kids’ remark” Mummy, when will you be really up-to-date and start using Iphone?”” DO I really need it?” “ Who doesn’t Mum!” How could she explain that that was not what she wanted to teach them? She wanted to implant compassion, sympathy and largeness of souls before having the Iphone or the I-pad or I-pod or God only knows the I-what.
“DA..DA…DA”
Suddenly, the image of a bloody crushed face surprised her eyes; Kaddafi’s. Watching the violent movie of his assassination, a turmoil of emotions rose calmly in Merna’s heart. It was as if she had known it all the way; waited for it. But when it finally took place was expectedly unbearable.
“Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
OOOOps! She missed the right moment to press the repeat button. Tina Turner ‘s voice flew in her ears “Out of the Runs/Out from the wreckage/ can’t make the same mistake this time/ We are the children/ The last generation/ We are the ones left behind/ And I wonder when we are ever gonna change/living under the fear/ till nothing else remains/ we don’t need another hero”.

 

فى ذكرى اكتوبر: فى بيتنا قمر أكتوبر 7, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 10:37 ص

 فى ذكرى أكتوبر: فى بيتنا قمر

(1)            ظابط دكتور. كنت دون الرابعة حين قامت حرب أكتوبر. وقتها كان قريبنا ووالد رفاق الطفولة‘ضابط دكتور فى بورسعيد قبل الحرب بعامين..ساحرا كان هو فى الزى العسكرى مضافا الى وسامته الطبيعية.. كان أقرب الى محمود عبد العزيز فى فيلم “حتى آخر العمر”.. قمراً كان.. طلته لا تقاوم.. لا أعلم كيف احتملت زوجته أن تفارقه.. هل فعلت لأن مصر يومها “كانت” أغلى من الكل”؟ أم لأنه لم يكن هناك مفر..لاأدرى..يوم شعرباقتراب الحرب،هاتف والدى قائلا :” شئ ما فى الهواء.. العيال وصيتك.”اغلق أبى السماعة و أحضر الزوجة و الطفلين لبيتنا النائى فى المنطقة الصناعية من البلدة دون كلام..عشنا فى بيت واحد طوال رمضان و لم نتركهم يرجعون الا بعد النصر والعيد..كان الحديث الدائر طوال الوقت بيننا كأطفال عن البطل القمر..ثم نزل صاروخ اسرائيلى على المنطقة الصناعية.. كان أبى يهرع فى كل مكان.. يحمل صغيرة البطل على كتفه.. مسئولاً عن  الأسرة و المصنع.. اختبأت أنا وابن البطل فى ركن بعيد نرقب الموقف حتى هدأ.. فى الليل حملنا فوانيسنا الصفيح، تلك الفوانيس ذات الشمعة الحقيقية التى تلسع يدك، و نزلنا تحت المكتب:

(2)             – هل تظن الصواريخ تأتينا هنا؟”

– “ممكن. من فتحات الشيش.” جرينا وسددنا جميعها بالقطن والملابس.

-ما الوضع الآن؟

-أحسن.. وعموما بابا البطل سيحمينا لو حاجة حصلت.

-أبويا جابكم تعيشوا معانا

-خلاص.. نبقى خالصين

-عارفة لو الاسرائيليين جم هنا حنعمل فيهم ايه؟

– ايه؟

– حنربطهم فى حبل المرجيحة و نضربهم.

– بإيه؟

– “بالحزام.. لا بالشبشب.. لا بالمنفضة. هئ هئ..فى خرم هناك أهه! حيدخل منه صاروخ تانى”.. نجرى لسد الفتحة ونعود تحت المكتب.

 يوم أن عبرنا،ظل صديقى الصغير يرقص ويقول أنا حأطلع ظابط دكتورزى بابا..”سالته: هى البنات بتطلع ظابط دكتور برضه؟” ” لا طبعا” مرت الأيام و أصبح هو الظابط وأنا الدكتورة وظل القمر فى وسامته وزيه العسكرى الساحر ومعنى وجوده هناك على الجبهة فى بورسعيد يعالج و يضمد .ظل القمر مضيئا فى بيتنا وفى قلوبنا.وظل أبى فى شهامته وحكمته وحمايته للممتلكات والأرواح على الجبهة الداخلية قمرا آخر.لم يكن أى منهما يمثل نفسه فقط. بل كانا حالة شعب بأكمله تشبه الأيام الأولى الكريستالية من ثورة يناير ولاتشبه اى شئ أراه الان من إضرابات ومخالفة لكل القوانين وريبة وشك ويأس .لازلت أردد الأغانى.كيف لا أزال أحفظها وأنا التى أصبحت أنسى اسمى احيانا؟ بسم الله.الله أكبر بسم الله..حلوة بلادى السمرا بلادى..خللى السلاح صاحى صاحى..وعاد البطل بعد أحداث الثغرة.

 (2) يا ترى انت فين يا مرزوق؟ “بابا أنور بطل السلام.بأبعت لك مليون سلام وبأقولك يابابا أنورسير سيرواحنا وراك..” وقفت أغنى هذه الكلمات طفلةَ فى السابعة وأنا أبكى.سافر رفقاء الطفولة أبناء البطل الى البلد الخليجى مع والديهما.ضاق الحال وزاد العيال ولم يعد هناك حل.حتى نحن حاولنا السفرولم نفلح.كان كل شئ يتغير فوقفهم الكباروالصغار.كان يبدو أنه يتغير للأحسن.الكل يسعى لتحسين حاله.حركة عمران كبيرة. بعض من أقاربنا الآخرين لا يتكلمون سوى عن الأسمنت والحديد.أشياء جديدة ساحرة: شامبو.. كاميرات..سيارات..كمبوت..لولى بوب..آيس كريم فى علب عوضا عن بائع الجيلاتى..دنيا جديدة..كنا نتغير دون أن ندرى..من سافر أو من لم يسافر..الكل كان فى قلب خلاط أسمنت كبير يعلو بنا أحيانا أو يهبط.. لم أكن أعى عمق التغييرات وقتها..فشلت المحاولات لاقناعى بأن هناك شيئا ما فى هذا الكون يستحق أن يحرمنى من أصدقائى..كففت عن البكاء يأسا فى النهاية وظللت أنتظر منهم الجواب وشريط الكاسيت والأجازات..فى الاجازات تميز كل شئ بروائح الخليج..النفتالين فى الحقائب والبارفانات الفخمة فى الملابس.بهجة الهدايا ولوعة النهاية..بات واضحا كم يتغير كل شئ..معتما فى البداية..واضحا فيما بعد..قاسيا فى النهاية..كأن الغربة تطحن العظام وتغير صلصال التكوين وتعيد الخلق ثانية.. ظل الأحباب أحبابا..جدد..وتغيرت مواضيع الحديث..أصبحنا نتكلم عن العباءات والشمسيات والمراوح والذهب والمصيف واللعب والشيكولاتة المستوردة وثمن الغربة والرغبة الدائمة فى العودة و”ذُنب المصريين  بعضهم لبعض” وحرارة الجو المستحيلة..وانحباس الأطفال فى غرف مكيفة مغلقة..والحدود وكراهية العرب لمعاهدة السلام  وكيف انعكس ذلك على الأطفال المصريين فى مدارسهم هناك..عاد القمر وأسرته من الخليج..وتحولت حرب أكتوبر لمجموعة من الأفلام العظيمة والأغانى الساحرة.. تومض أسبوعا فى العام ثم تخفت.

(3) على خلفية الإحتفالات الجديدة بعد الثورة: عاش القمرمثل كل الناس .ازدهر، انطفأ،كسب وخسر، أخطأ وأصلح، يوم حلو ويوم مر،فى كل أحواله كان مثل مصر ذاتها، يمثل روحها وعذاباتها، ينكرضعفه ، يقاوم ، يكرم ضيفه ويرتدى عباءة الكبيرحتى لو ثقلت عليه. تقف أمام محاولاته الانسانية الدؤوبة بإحترام. لاأتذكر أنه حكى لنا فيما بعد أى شئ عن تجربة الحرب..هل لشدة عمقها وألمها أم لغرابة التحولات التى أعقبتها فأنست الناس كيف كانت مصروكيف أصبحت؟ لا أجد اجابات.كانت ظاهرة وجب التوقف أمامها.لماذا توقف الناس فى الثمانينات والتسعينيات وما بعدها عن مناقشة الحرب..الحكاء عن الحرب..استدعاء الذكرى الشخصية للحرب..هل كان هذا متعمدا أم مصادفة؟ سألت زوجته ..كيف كان الحال وقت الحرب وكيف شعرت و لماذا لم تحكِ لنا؟..انتعش صوتها الواهن وغمرتنى بفيض من التفاصيل.مروقت طويل وهى تحكى..لا تلاحق تدفق الذكرى أحيانا..سكتت..بكت..قالت:” كنت أبحث عنه فى حلمى طوال ليلة أمس..كان فى الحلم صغيرا..مثل أصغر أحفادى..تائها..كنت أبحث وأنادى..أعدتيه الى بحديث الشجون هذا”..عن جد..علينا أن نبحث كلنا عنه يا خالة!

 

 

 

 

 

 

التفاحة! أسطورة نفسية بقلم منى النمورى أكتوبر 4, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 11:18 م

– التفاحة

 

إستيقظ آدم من نوم متعب مضطرب كان يفيق فيه كل بضع دقائق مذهولاً من هول ما حدث..كانت رأسه تلف وريقه ناشفاً وكأن أحدهم قد دس فيه حجراً محترقاً..كان جسده ساخناً ومعدته كقطعة  من الثلج..لم يكن قادراً على تحديد شعوره..خائفاً..مصدوماً..متعباً.. مضطرباً لأبعد الحدود..تقلب على رمال الصحراء الهشة وغاص قلبه فى بئر من الحسرة المريرة.حرك رأسه و بصره لليمين واليسار.. يتولد عنده الآن إحساس غامض بالإتجاهات..كان الفراغ مهولاً والصمت عميقاً..لايكاد ينتهى..راودته أطياف من موسيقى عذبة كانت تنساب من حوله وكأنها تنصب منه..ما اجملها! أنصت حوله مرة أخرى..لاشئ! عذبته أحلام التفاحة ..لن يفهم أبداً ماذا حدث..لماذا سيطرت تلك التفاحة عليه..إمتلكته تماماً من رأسه لقدميه..أحرقت حواسه بجمالها و نضرة ألوانها ورائحتها الشهية..لم يكن يفكر فى غيرها ليل نهار..تحولت الرغبة الى إحتياج قارس وتحول الإحتياج الى إستحواذ ثم الى فعل مدوى حين مد أصابعه وإقتطفها وغرس فى سطحها الرقيق أسنانه فسال العصير المسكر داخل فمه وإهتاج من النشوى فأخذ يقضم ويقضم حتى أتى عليها كلها..سال عصيرها المسكرعلى جوانب فمه..سال على عنقه و سقطت القطرات على كتفيه وظهره وبطنه..شاهدها وهى تتساقط تحت قدميه.. شعر بها تلفه كله وهو يتحسس لزوجة السكر على جسده ..لاتسألنى ما الذى حدث بعد ذلك. أنت تعرف تماماً ما الذى حدث حين إختفت الموسيقى و..وعد لبداية المشهد حين أفاق آدم من نومه المتعب.

غاص آدم بداخله..رأى حديقة صدره..كانت مليئة بالتفاح النضر وفى كل تفاحة دودة حية تسعى بداخلها وداخله..ما أقذر تلك الحديقة!.كيف إنتهى به الحال هكذا؟ وهو المكرم المنعم فى ال..!عجز حتى عن نطق إسم المكان الذى تنعم فيه طوال..!عجز حتى عن تحديد الوقت..لم يكن هناك لا وقت ولا إتجاهات ولابداية ولا نهاية.. كانت الصورة الكلية منسجمة تماماً عن ذى قبل …أصبح لكل شئ الآن حدُ فاصلُ وشعورُ مختلفُ عن ذى قبل..

ماذا يفعل الآن؟ يطلب المغفرة؟..تاب الربُ على آدم فتاب..إذن فقد تاب الرب ..”ما أدراك أن هذا قد حدث؟ كيف يتوب الرب وقد أسأت الى نفسك بهذا الشكل؟” قالتها الحية بسرعة وتلوت لتختفى فى الرمال..تبعها بعينيه حتى إستقرت فى حديقة صدره حيث التفاح النضر ذو الدود..ماذا تريدين أن أفعل؟ ” فقط أشعر أنك تضيع الوقت..لن يغفر الله لك” كفانى مافعلتِ بى..كفانى أنك تبوأت مكانك داخل صدرى..”لن أرحل..هذا وعد مكتوب” :” إخرسى إذن” تقلب آدم مرة اخرى على الرمال الحارقة بحثاً عن أى شئ فى أى إتجاه والحية تتقلب على رمال حديقته الخربة مستمتعةً بحيرته..شغلته مسألة الإتجاهات هذه..رب ال..هو رب كل الإتجاهات ..لابد أن للإتجاهات حكمة..عليه أن يسعى فى كل الإتجاهات متذللآً لربه طالباً لمغفرته..لا ليس كل الإتجاهات فقط وإنما فى كل الخطوات..سيعد خطوة خطوة ويستغفر ” أستغفر الله الذى لاإله إلا هو الحى القيوم وأتوب إليه” خطوة أخرى..” أستغفر الله الذى لاإله إلا هو الحى القيوم وأتوب إليه” خطوة ثالثة ..ورابعة..وخامسة..آه مسح آدم العرق من على جبينه ..شعر بالدوخة..كانت الشمس قاسية وحلقه جافاً وأحلام التفاحة النضرة المسكرة تسيل داخل فمه.. تهاجمه بعسلها..تُعذب لسانه وتُعطشه اكثر…تغوص داخله حتى قدميه ثم تستقر فى حديقة التفاح ذو الدود..كان كل كابوس للتفاحة مثل تفاحة جديدة تتجسد امامه يقطفها وتستقر فى صدره..

نظر بعمق فى عينى حواء.. بالطبع تعرف أنها معه..اراد ان يخترقها بعينيه..لا يفهم كيف قربتهما قصة التفاحة تلك..بات بينهما رابط خفى ثقيل..ربما الإحساس بالذنب ..ربما إستحالة تحديد المتهم الحقيقي..ربما أنه لا يوجد غيرهما فى هذه الصحراء الواسعة…ربما لأن كلاهما تنتابه أحلام التفاحة…أولها لذة وآخرها حسرة.تبدأ باللون الأحمر النضر وتنتهى بأن  يرى بها الدودة..الدودة متغيرة الأحجام..تصبح غير مرئية أحياناً و تنقلب ثعباناً عظيماً فى بعض الأحيان.. يترك كل الصحراء و يتخذ من صدره وكراً.. لابد من أن يقتل نفسه بضربة فى الصدر..يقتل نفسه..ألن يريحه هذا من هذا العذاب؟لكن ألا يكون هذا إمعاناً فى المعصية؟ ألا يوجد من يرد على اى سؤال هنا؟

فليجرب النداء إذن..ياااا! لا يعرف علام ينادى! الحق انه لا يعرف ما الذى يحتاجه! يشعر بإلحاح النداء فقط..برغبة فى أن يطلق صوته بعيداَ و فى كل من هذه الإتجاهات الخانقة عسى أن ينفتح باب او ينغلق باب..عسى ان يحدث شيئ ما. يااااااا! يااااااااااااااا! كان النداء ينتشر فى كل إتجاه ويرتد إليه خاوياً.

ياااااااااا! لا يعرف لماذا لايجد نهاية لجملة النداء هذه؟ جرب كل الأسماء التى تعلمها من قبل فى ال…كان بعضها يخضع للتجربة لفترة ثم يتبين أنه لايصلح أصلاً وبعضها يفى بالغرض لفترة ثم يختفى من نهاية نفق جملة الياااااااااااااا هذه..تعب آدم..تعب..غرق فى صمت عميق و طويل هو وحديقته وحيته..لم تعد الأسماء التى تعلمها هناك مهمة..لم تعد الأصوات مهمة..لم يعد شيئاً ما مهماً..رأى آدم مستقبله و مستقبل ذريتة مرهقاً مع تلك الحية اللعينة الكامنة فى ثنايا صدوره.. دق يوماً على صدره ثم وضع رأسه على الرمال الهشة و تمنى لو إبتلعته من نفسها.. تردد النداء خافتاً للمرة الأخيرة داخل فمه “يا! يا!” لم يكن شئ هناك..لم يكن آدم نفسه هناك..لم يكن هناك سواه..تسارع النداء فى فم آدم ثانيةً  بلهفة مرتجفة إعترته…يااااا يااااا  يا الله!إن لم تتب علينا نكن من الخاسرين.أغمض آدم عينيه وغمرته أصوات الجنة التى ضاع منها.

صفق المشاهدون عند نهاية العرض..كان المبهربه هو تقنيات ظهور التفاحة وإختفائها و النظام الصوتى الذى جعل نداء آدم نداءً داخل كل صدر من صدور الحضور. تدافعوا جميعاً عند الباب للخروج..ثم إلتفتت الطفلة نحو خشبة المسرح ثانية عدة مرات..عساها تلمح الحية هناك.

 

 

The Last Jar of Home-made Strawberry Jam

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 11:03 م

Days passed while Merna struggled with the translation of the English poem. She wanted to try her hand in translating a short literary work as a warm-up exercise before delving into a more complicated work. Seduced by the short, easy-dictioned poem by Stevie Smith, “Not Waving But Drowning”, Merna found herself in a professional deadlock. Not only could she understand every word, but she could feel herself actually drowning in the cold black sea as well. However, that did not make translating it any easier; quite the opposite.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

First, there was the difficulty of determining who the speaker in the poem was. There was no punctuation to guide her. She knew instinctively more than linguistically that there were at least three voices. But how would this be beautifully translated into Arabic without violating the smoothness of the English poem? Second, there was her increasing identification with the action of the poem; a thing that made her about to write a counter poem for the poem rather than translate it. It was strange that she had always seen herself as a carrier of ideas from one mind into another. With this poem, she had no desire to carry anything; the readers should actually come and drown themselves if they want to feel the cold dark sea and experience the whirlpool of alienation and death for themselves. How could any translator think of translating that? How could you define the pain except by comparing it to other pains that the readers might have experienced? ‘Caesarean section is ten times like bikini waxing’, she had heard that somewhere. But what if the reader was a man who had never had bikini waxing; or any waxing?
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

The dead man lay moaning, able to talk! Smith did not say the ‘dying man’; that would have made it possible for him to moan or say something among his dying breaths. He was “dead” already. So, someone else must have said what was being said “ I was much further out than you thought”. Who said that? Smith? Someone on the beach, perhaps?
“Merna! “ Yes, Mum!”
“ Lunch is ready and your brothers are here”
“ Mum, since my brothers are here, can I be taken to the tombs to visit dad before it gets dark?”
The mother, still in black after two years of her husband’s death, remained silent looking awkwardly at her three kids. Both brothers expressed their discomfort about going. One of them lay down on the sofa murmuring something about how tired he was. The other one looked carefully at her from top to toe and made a sour remark about the unsuitability of her clothes to the visit the tombs. Merna said nothing. She was never allowed to the tombs unescorted because of how isolated and dangerous the place was. Moreover, she was in no mood of begging any of her brothers or starting a sterile argument about clothes fit for the living or the dead. She knew her brothers would reluctantly take her at the end, perhaps fuss about the validity of visiting the dead to start with; then stand purposefully speechless in front of the green tomb next to her, probably yawning. She would be too self-conscious of their bored presence that the words she had long intended to say to her father would choke in her throat. She would end up watching the green short tomb with the family name inscribed on it; not finding any connection between what she was watching and the fact that she missed her dad. She would look at the adjacent short tombs in different colors with the family names inscribed on them and think of a city full of colorful houses for dwarves. “ Never mind Mum, I will read some Quran for him later on instead of visiting.” Said Merna.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

She could not eat. She was heavily bleeding and her tummy throbbed with severe colic. Her child looked at her knowingly. She knew her mom’s symptoms that had recently made her eat very little. The girl assured her granny that mom would have something later when the pain lessened. Merna turned her chair to look at the news bulletin. T.V. was always on those days on the news channels; even during lunch. The Egyptian revolution was on a tricky crossroads which seemed vicious to Merna. A bright crystal liberating moment was dimmed.
With her hand on her aching tummy, she thought of her expected hysterectomy. She would feel better after it as the doctors said; relieved from the sudden spasm and break-through bleedings. Still, she could not take the decision whole–heartedly. It was just mysteriously too tough for her to give her uterus away. This was where she could feel her child receiving life as an unchosen gift one day. As a woman, this had been the center of her tortured being all her life, she thought. A woman! What was a woman. Scientifically speaking, she was too much of a woman because she had greater amounts of the female hormone than what should be. Now, after the hysterectomy, would she have to start looking for a meaning for womanhood all over again? Years had passed while she was searching and was now content that her life train had reached most of the search stations only to find vague meanings. And the operating table! She would lie down and watch doctors and nurses prepare their silver tools, hurry here and there paying her little attention or pampering her like a doll before forcing her to sleep. What would happen later? How would she feel? A black hole in her tummy? The psychologist told her that her uterus was not the center of her being; that her mind and soul were. She wanted to scream at her face. She did not want to be told anything by anyone. All her life she had been told how to feel about her body and soul and mind that did not represent her and she was filled up with resentment to her nose.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Was the man too dead always? Were we born dead? “ Would you like dessert at least, Merna dear?” “ ha!” The mother put a jar of strawberry jam on the table in front of her. “Your dad brought the strawberry himself and helped me make it as usual”. Merna smiled as she remembered her parents working together in the kitchen. Her mother did not actually need help making jam. It was their quality time in the latest years doing simple housework while chatting together. She dipped the tip of her finger and took some jam into her mouth, closing her eyes as she sucked it. She spread the rather sour mashed fruits over the interiors of her mouth; careful to swallow it as slowly and as intensely as possible. She kept her eyes closed for some time as if her dad would come out of the jar or radiate into her stomach. While her seven-year-old self was coming down the stairs at dawn, enchanted by the sweet voice performing the dawn prayer, secret strawberry- red roses magically unfolded themselves along the banister under her hand, along the steps under her feet like a carpet, and along the walls that she passed. Her dad’s voice was neither exceptionally beautiful nor musical, but while he prayed, his lonely sincerity flowed and wrapped the entire house. Nothing that little Merna could imagine might have harmed her at her solitary moment watching her dad pray. Sometimes, he would feel her peeping presence and ask her to sit on his red praying rug to listen to one of the Prophets ‘stories. “ So, dad, if you were told by God to kill me as He ordered Abraham to kill his son, would you do it? She asked. “ Abraham was a strong prophet and man. God asked him a proof suitable for his position. I am a simple man; God is too merciful to put me to such a test,” her father answered. She would go up to her room after he had finished; tucking their secret garden with the touch of her hand and feet again as she went upstairs.
After lunch, Merna hurried to leave before the dark. She wanted a safe drive on the highway back home. Thugs filled the streets since the mysterious revolution. As she was taking off her blouse, her lips touched a sticky strawberry-smelling collar. She licked the collar slowly spreading the sugary saliva over the interiors of her mouth. Her heart sank and she felt the dull colic again.
That night, her dad visited her in a dream. He held her tight and disappeared. In the morning, she buried her face in her unwashed blouse and finally let her tears roll down.

 

فاصوليا خضراء..قصة قصيرة د. بقلم منى النمورى

Filed under: Uncategorized — monaelnamoury @ 9:19 ص
Tags:

فاصوليا خضراء

خرج  الشاب  الصغير محمود من بيته مبكراَ ليمر على جاره مروان فى بيته فى طريقهما الى درس الأحياء الخصوصى..لايزال هناك متسع من الوقت قبل الدرس ليخطف تصبيرة من الطعام تعينه على يومه. الحق انه نزل هارباً من منزله الذى عمته الفوضى فى الشهور الأخيرة منذ لحقت أمه بأبيه المريض فى الخليج وتركته مع أخته الكبيرة..منذ غابت الأم وكل شئ مقفر فى المكان وأخته التى لاتكاد تفعل شيئاً تتذمر طوال الوقت..حاولت الطبخ فى بداية الأمر لكن لم تكن النتائج مرضية لأى منهما بل أضافت الى اعباء البنت الذى حاول محمود جاهداً أن يحصرها فى ذهنه عبء الأطباق المتسخة..توقفت الفتاة عن المحاولة وأخذت توزع مصروف البيت عليهما بالتساوى ليشترى كل منهما مايريد من طعام السوق الجاهز..تارة طعمية أو فول أو كشرى أو الشطائر السريعة والفطائر..كلها أوفى بالغرض لفترة من الوقت حتى تعب الولد من كل هذا الزيت والتوابل.. ما باليد حيلة سوى الإنتظار الطويل لأمٍ رآها تنفطر وهى تختار بين أب مريض وأبناء تعرف أنهما لايزالان طفلين رغم علامات النضج على جسديهما..لم يفهم لماذا لم يأتِ عمهما للإطمئنان عليهما كما وعد أخيه..ولم يفهم لماذا لم ترسل زوجة عمه الطعام أسبوعياً كما تصور انها ستفعل يوم أن دست امه بنقود فى يدها و همست بأذنها بكلام لم يسمعه والدموع فى عينيها..كان يفكر فى هذا وهو يقضم البيتزا ماشياً..قلبها يميناً ويساراً داخل فمه..دفعها بلسانه ناحية حلقه ولكنها توقفت..حاول دفعها مرة أخرى لكنها أبت وعصت وكأنه يدفع بقطعة من الصخر فى انبوب ضيق..أرغمها على النزول بجرعة من المشروب الغازى الداكن لكنه لم يستطع أن يكررها..إشتعلت النار فى معدته بعد القضمة الأخيرة وبدا كانها تجرى من اللهيب بإتجاه فمه وتكاد تخرج..وضع قطعة البيتزا بجانب جدار أحد البيوت وأكمل طريقه.

عندما وصل لمنزل صديقه وجده ينهى طعام الغذاء وامامه بقايا طبق من فاصوليا خضراء فى الصلصة الحمراء والأرز الأبيض..تغلغلت رائحة الفاصوليا فى أنفه ومعها صورة أمه بجلباب المنزل أمام الموقد..كانت فاصوليا خضراء..خضراء للغاية..خضراء لدرجة البكاء..مثل حقول الخُضرة فى قرية أبيه وبقايا رائحة البرسيم فى حظائر البهائم والشمس الدافئة فوق أسطح المنازل..نظر محمود بطرف عينيه الى الطبق ولم ينسَ ان يمر على بقايا هرم الأرز الأبيض اللامع تعلوه الصلصة الحمراء وفتافيت اللحم الأحمر..رد دعوة صديقه للغذاء بعفة مريرة وأكد له أنه قد تناول طعام الغذاء مسبقاً ثم تشاغل بمشاهدة ماتش كرة القدم المذاع على التلفاز الموضوع على خزانة الأطباق حتى إنتهاء صديقه من إرتداء ملابسه..حرص على تثبيت نظره على الشاشة و طبق الفاصوليا يراقبه من فوق المائدة..يدغدغ أنفه مثل فاكهة محرمة..يناديه..يخترق صدر أمه عينيه ..ينقط اللبن الدافئ فى فمه..يروى عطشه ويدفئ بطنه الجائع..يعود للماتش وملعقة امه الفضية الكبيرة لا تفتئ تتراقص على الشاشة وتعذبه..يمد يده المرتعشة الى الملعقة المتسخة..يملأها بالفاصوليا الباردة وهو يرتجف ،يرميها على الأرز ويعيد ملء الملعقة بالمزيج..يدسها فى فمه سريعا ويلحس شفته السفلى ويبلعها ..من زاوية عينيه يفاجئه وجود الخادمة ترقبه إنتظاراً ان ينتهى من جريمته الصغيرة حتى ترفع الأطباق..يخرج متعثراً وينتظر صديقه أسفل البناية..ثم يجرى بسرعة ودموعه تجرى على خده..تدخل فى فمه اللاهث وتختلط ببقايا الصلصة الحمراء.