لون الشقاء

لون الشقاء
قضيت أسبوع في الساحل الشمالي. ليس في مارينا أو احدي القرى الساحلية المعروفة، ولكن في فندق سياحي في خليج

غزالة يسمي Charm life. المكان جميل بكل المقاييس، فندق خمس نجوم، خدمة ممتازة، مباني رائعة، و طبيعة ساحرة.. كل شيء جميل جميل. المكان ذكرني كثيرا بشرم الشيخ، ذلك لجماله و أناقته و جودة الخدمة فيه، إلي جانب انتشار السائحين الإيطاليين بالمكان حيث لم يكن هناك مصريين غير عائلتي و مجموعة أخرى من العائلات المصرية تعد علي أصابع اليد الواحدة. روعة المكان تنسي الإنسان كل مشاكله و مشاكل الحياة و كل ما يجري من واقع مر ٍ في كل بقعة من بقاع الأرض.. و لكن!!
لفت نظري جدا عالم المصريين العاملين في المكان. هؤلاء ليسوا الخدم غير المؤهلين الذين نصطدم بهم في كل مكان للنزهة في قاهرتنا الحبيبة، هؤلاء مجموعة تتحدث الإيطالية بطلاقة و واضح عليهم حسن التدريب و الخبرة. يتعاملون مع الأجانب بذوق واضح و لكن بتحفظ شديد في نفس الوقت. جميل إذن ما تراه أنت الآن، عامل مصري كفؤ، سعيد بالعمل مع "الخواجات" (يعني آخر حاجة يحب يشفها هي شوية مصريين هربانين من مارينا و جايين هنا بقي يقرفونا!) لكن انظر ما حدث حولي

ذات مرة كنت في البوفيه المفتوح واقفة أمام الشيف يقطع لي بتركيز شديد و بشكل ألي قطعة لحم، بعد أن وضعها في طبقي كنت علي وشك أن أقول له "thank you" كالمعتاد و لكن لم أري وجاهة في ذلك. هو مصري و أنا كذلك، و في بلادنا العامل الذي يصنع لك شيء بيديه تشكره قائلا "شكراً، تسلم أيديك" فلما "thank you" إذن؟ بمجرد أن سمع "تسلم إيديك" رفع وجهه و لمعت عيونه السوداء و أشرق وجهه المصري الأسمر بابتسامة عريضة فيها دفء واضح و قال "العفو يا ست الكل، بالهنا و الشفا.. أجبلك كمان؟

كل ما فعلته هو أنني قلت لهذا العامل بطريقة غير مباشرة: (خواجات إيه ؟ و إحنا مالنا و مالهم يا عم ؟ أنا بشكرك أنت .) فأشرق الوجه المصري البديع يرد (أنتي أحسن عندي منهم

ما حدث ليس صدفة. هذه واقعة متكررة. مرة أخرى كنت في ممر صغير وقابلت أحد العاملين آتي في وجهي و كنت قد رأيته من قبل

كثيرا في المكان. رفعت عيني و ابتسمت قائلة "سلامو عليكو" فابتسم و قال في أدب و لكن بحماس واضح: "والله حضرتك أللي منورلنا المكان دا كله يا دكتورة. أهلا بيكي." (أصله كان شاف في إيدي كتاب قبل كده أبقى أكيد دكتورة

مرة أخرى كنت ألعب مع ابنة أختي ذات العام الواحد، فأوقعت "التيتينا" من يدها و الجرسون يضع لنا ما طلبنا، بشكل ألي جداً رفعها من الأرض فشكرته و ابتسمت لها قائلة "قوليله bye" فضحكت له و "بعتتلوا بوسة في الهوا". ابتسم في شجن و قال: "ربنا يخليهالك. أنا كمان عندي ابن في إسكندرية. زمانه بقى عنده تلات شهور دلوقتي." فهمت بعدها من كلامه أن الطفل ولد و هو هنا يعمل في "الهاي سيزون" حيث لا يمكن أن ينزل إجازة ليرى مولوده

و مواقف أخرى عديدة من نفس النوع، كلها تري في أولها الماكينات المصرية السمراء تعمل باجتهاد و هي مطأطئة الرؤوس

ثم عندما تستشعر في قلبك الدفء و البساطة، تتفجر ينابيع البُعد الإنساني فيهم و يجري الدم في عروقهم و يرفعون وجوههم و قد اكتسب سمارها لوناً وردياً كان قد اختفي من إرهاق ساعات العمل الطويلة و حل محلها لون الشقاء

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

العمل المصاحب للمقال من اعمال النحات المصري محمد رزق, باسم "سزييف المصري

The Lonely Pursue

Tribute to the soul of my grandfather. I never stop missing you.

The Lonely Pursue

I search for you in their eyes
I search for you,
What to do?!!
They are not you.
& The dawn is crying with due
The flower is losing her hue
& Departure time is due..
Without you..
A lifetime of pursue.
In their hearts
In their laughs..
But you’re not among them
You’re not there
You’re not even near
*******************
The more they flirt around
The more I feel lonely
& you’re not there
You’re not anywhere
& they do scare
The more people are around
The farther your breaths become
& the lonelier I become

**************************

The Holly Land; Heaven

I have always felt that a short yet successful life filled with achievements is in fact a perfect life. Whenever, people come to mention a famous person who was very successful yet died young, they come to talk about that regretfully, yet I’ve never seen it that way. I think it is as if all the moments of failure & depression were compressed to take a very limited space of your lifetime & most of your lifetime was spent in achieving successes. We could take the lives of some artists & authors as a good example of a life intensely & successfully, yet shortly, lived. I have no pessimistic or suicidal tendencies –thank God- but I have never regarded dying young after a successful life a bad thing.!!!!

The Holly Land; Heaven

I came to take your hand
Come see the holy land
Gardens, Gardens, Gardens
No heat, on thirst, no sand

I came crossing time
Not to kill your prime
But to show you how..
To die & yet be fine

The holy land known as Heaven
To you, young lady, God has given
Dying young is not a curse
Dying young.. to live in Heaven

الحديقة و الأيام

الحديقة و الأيام

و تركتني الأيام
و رَحَلَتَ مع الأيام
و ظللت وحدي بلا أيام
تركتني أيام الماضي.. و مضت
و تركتني أيام الحاضر.. و ذابت
و تركتني أيام المستقبل

و سافرت إلى المستقبل
كل الأيام تركتني

و أنا الآن أجد نفسي
وحيدة.. في حديقة
فيها زهور و أشجار و ألوان
لكن ليست فيها أيام
و أنا في وسط الحديقة الكبيرة.. صغيرة
و ليس معي أيام
ماذا أفعل بحديقة غابت عنها الأيام؟

و في غياب الأيام.. كل الأيام

الماضي و الحاضر و الأحلام
تتوقف الأرض عن الدوران

The Gem

* Please have mercy not to preach me about hope & despair; sometimes things are not to be seen from that perspective. Sometimes we need to give space & consideration for human weakness.

The Gem

Once upon a time there was a gem that was born in a shell & has lived there ever since it was born. Then one day it heard a very nice sound outside, so it decided to go out & see what is going on out there. The gem got out of the shell; it saw a huge bird with colorful feathers singing a very touching melody. The bird noticed the little gem standing beside it, & thinking it was a grain the bird hit the gem with its beak & was about to eat it. The scared little gem rushed quickly back to its shell deciding not to go out again ever from its shell.
Now the years have passed, the gem has been living inside its shell & got used to its life that way. Until one day it heard another nice melody out there. This new melody reminded it of the old experience & it realized some thing about itself that it didn’t know before; this gem is not the type whose wounds heal. They just cover themselves or hide in a closed box until, for some reason, are uncovered again & they start aching like before. It realized also that by the passage of time, the shell has become harder from the outside with the gem inside, & the harder the shell becomes the weaker the gem becomes.
The poor gem didn’t know what to do. Would it go out & risk its life again, or would it just ignore this new melody as it sounds exactly like the one before. “Maybe it’s a kind bird, maybe it’s a bad bird... What to do? What to do?” the poor confused gem kept thinking. With bleeding wounds of the past, present fears & an aching heart with all these burdens carried on its weak shoulders, the little gem kept moving in circles around its shell thinking & thinking & thinking. “Maybe I’m too weak, maybe I shouldn’t risk my present safe & peaceful life, maybe I should ignore the nice touching melody outside…”. The gem kept moving & moving in circles until it got so tired & so exhausted & so consumed by confusion. At some point it broke down, fell on the floor, wept, cried, sobbed painfully.

The gem was too weak to try
The gem had to cry
The gem had to dry
The gem had to die

Tango for life!

* I recommend listening to Edith Piaf's song "La vie en rose" while reading this post! Enjoy :)

Tango for life!

Where did this melody, this eternal song that kept playing on and on, come from? When did the blood start flowing in the veins of life? When did this perfect picture gain its wonderful, perfectly matching colors? How did this dance start?

Their graceful bodies stretched. They were looking at each other’s eyes. As he was stretching out his strong arm, and slowly embracing her waste, she was landing her small hand on his shoulder. He took her other hand in his, and the warm rounded tips of his fingers rested in the small palm of her hand. Who was inviting whom to the dance?

“I don’t know how to tango.”
“Who cares?!”
“How shall I know what to do?”
“You’ll know.”


And there they moved.


On the dance floor, they were breathing with the same rhythm; inhaling together, and exhaling together, they were breathing the same air. On the dance floor, they were flowing smoothly; flying slowly like a lazy butterfly. They went in circles, on and on they went. There were times, when he stepped towards her, and she stepped back to give him space. And times when she stepped ahead, and he stepped back to welcome her at his place. There were moments when she looked down in doubt, and he led the dance, and moments when they moved in the direction where she had stretched her pearly neck. Taken by the slow peaceful melody, they flowed and flowed.

There was a moment when he stopped, looked at her with kind and encouraging eyes, tightened his arm around her waste making her stretch her body more then before, and firmly held her hand in his. There he bent a bit forth, letting her body bend backwards, moved her in half a circle, then invited her back to his embrace. How has she felt in those moments? In those moments, she saw the world upside down. She saw the world like she had never seen before. She freely flew in a circular motion. She felt the air moving around her face, making her hairs tickle her cheeks. She smiled, and said to herself “No need to be afraid. He’s there, he’s holding me tight.” When she came up to his arms again, she was a different person. For the first time in her life, she had seen the world, experienced the world, in a very different way. Since then, she has no more been herself; she is herself in harmony with the world.

By the time the final note was being played, they were ending their dance. Who stopped first? Who bowed first? Who came up first? They raised their heads, looked at each other’s eyes.

“It’s not important to dance well.”
“What’s important is to have a partner who’s willing to dance.”
“..Willing to make it a harmonious dance.”


*A deep sincere "thank you" to a kind-hearted friend for encouraging me to bring this piece to existence.

The white flower

“What if you slept,
And what if in your sleep,
You dreamed,
And what if in your dream,
You went to heaven,
And there, plucked a strange and beautiful flower,
And what if,
When you woke,
You had that flower in you hand!
Ah, what then?” *

Today, as I was moving around my room, suddenly, my eyes fell on a white flower! Yes, I found a flower in my room, & I don’t know where it came from. I asked everbody in the house! Nobody knows anything about it! I was scared! Yes, it’s flattering for a girl to get a flower, but it’s always scary! It’s always frightening to feel that love is approaching, to feel that it’s coming from somewhere you don’t know, from someone u don’t know! I have it now, & I don’t know to whom it belongs, & what to do with it! I have love. I have a symbol of love, & I don’t know what to do with it!
* The thanks for the quote go to lastu-adri . She sent it to me when I told her about the incident. The photo attached is for the flower I have found. It is originally white, but it seems it chose to put on different looks when it was being shot! Can't blame it! Who doesn't?! If anyone can identify it as his/hers, you’re most welcome to claim it!

Will you miss me?

Will you miss the soul with which you shared every breath you have taken? Will you miss the sound of the cheerful, spontaneous laugh, which flew around you? Will you miss the face that blushed, when you tried to flirt? Will you miss the tango melody that you have always hoped for meeting?

When I fly away like a scared bird, or run away like a hurt lion, when I lie down like a dead child, or fade away like a setting sun, when my face looks down, like a withering flower, and turn my burdened back to go, when I leave your life, when I disappear, will you miss me?

Will you wish for a chance to apologize?

*Tell me dear, Are You Lonesome Tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray,
To a bright summer day,
When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep,
And picture me there?
Is your heart filled with pain,
Shall I come back again?
Tell me, dear, Are You Lonesome Tonight?

I wonder if you are lonesome tonight.
You know someone said that the world's a stage.
And we each must play a part.
Fate had me playing in love, with you as my sweet heart.
Act one was when we met, I loved you at first glance.
You read your lines so cleverly and never missed a cue.
Then came act 2, you seemed to change,
You acted strange.
And why I'll never known.
Honey, you lied when you said you loved me.
And I had no cause to doubt you.
Now the stage is bare,
And I'm standing there,
With emptiness all around.
Tell me dear, Are You Lonesome Tonight?

* Edited Song “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” by Elvis Presley

أجمل صورة

أجمل صورة

أيه أجمل صورة أتخدتلك؟
وأنت صغير ولاّ كبير؟
و أنت فرحان و لاّ زعلان؟
و أنت مكشر و لا بتضحك؟
و أنت مكسوف و لاّ جرئ
و أنت قوي و لاّ ضعيف؟
و أنت قريب و لاّ بعيد؟
أجمل صورة أتخدتلك و أنت بتفكر في أيه؟
و أنت بتفكر في مين؟
أجمل صورة أتخدتلك و أنت أيه؟
و أنت مين؟

شرقيون نحن

شرقيون نحن

يا صديقي.. نحن الشرقيون
رجالنا رجال
و نساؤنا... رجال
يا عزيزي نحن الشرقيون
لا نهون

شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون ديّنون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون مؤمنون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون يصمدون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون يعرفون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يبكون

* * *

شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يضعفون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يتألمون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون يصبرون
صابرون نحن و الصابرون.. يصبرون

* * *

شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يتمردون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يثورون
ثائرون نحن.. و الثائرون يهدءون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون هادئون

يا صديقي لقد تعبت!!

شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يبكون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يضعفون
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون لا يتمردون
يا صديقي..
شرقيون نحن.. و الشرقيون مكبّلون
مكبّلون نحن.. و المكبّلون يموتون

Before It's Too Late!

P.S. To all those who fear life; who fear living, or have a life that is lacking liveliness, or are postponing the life changing decisions till it's too late to live, Wake up!

Before it's Too Late

Before it’s too late
To love or to hate
I do consolidate
To attack my fate

I used to withdraw
To a corner I draw
Where my heart is safe..
In a dark secret cave.

But now..
Before it’s too late
With fear that’s so great..
I’m opening my gate.

الدمع السخين

الدمع السخين

أعبدك بالقلب السليم
أناديك بالصوت الرخيم
أناجيك بالدمع السخين
يا كريم يا رحيم

شوقي قديم
تسبيحي نسيم
يا رحمن يا رحيم أناجيك .. بالدمع السخين

My People

I was among those lucky ones who had managed to go on a trip to Alexandria, before the crowded summer started. We started our journey by the French Souq. In this place a "7ara" inside another "7ara" inside another, I've seen a scene which I'm never going to lose.
It is early in the morning, 10 am, so the sun is still sending those tender warm white rays. They are penetrating a wooden ceiling to reach my cold trembling cheeks. Yes, those old souqes have ceilings! I raise my face to look at the wooden ceiling and welcome the rays. The light tickles my eyes. I smile. I close my eyes, lower my face, and open them again on a magical scene. In one of those extremely narrow streets, I stopped to look at a workshop that makes "Oyma"; wooden arabesque ornaments. I see the worker sitting at the door of the shop. It is early in the day. He is starting his day and his work. It is as if life is starting a new day, not only this worker. The white rays are falling on the wooden pieces of Oyma and letting their reddish brown color shine.

I can clearly smell the scent of wood. That very scent, you used to smell whenever you stepped inside your grandmother's old room to say "ana geit" on a Friday morning when you were a child.

The place was very quiet, the only sound I can hear is the voice of a Sheik citing some of the verses of the Quran about benevolence with parents "Al-e7san ila Al-Abawein", those verses are encouraging people to be kind to their parents that's why they are extremely peaceful and passion-raising.

The sun's warm white rays, the smell of wood, the sound of the sheik, the beautiful forms of the Oyma, the dark-skinned worker.. the scene was magical.

The worker raised his face, kindly smiled at me and said, "you can take a photo of the oyma if you want to." Do I look that much like a stranger to the place and the people?! Listening to his words, I felt the coldness of my cheeks again despite the sun rays.. I took a photo, said "thank you", smiled at him, and left. I left with an over-whelming feeling of belonging to the place, and to the people. My people.

Note: The attached picture is for the dome of an old mosque in Alexandria. I meant not to post the pictures of the souq. I want the reader to freely imagine the described place.

لا أترك العمر

لا أترك العمر

ليس في بلادي دواء
عليل في بلادي النماء
لكني لا أترك هوائي
في بلادي الهواء شفاء

ليس في بلادي رخاء
و قليل فيها الغذاء
لكني لا أُفرغ عروقي
لا بشر بلا دماء

كل ما في بلادي فقير
كل من في بلادي كسير
لكني لا أترك فؤادي
و من بلادي لا أطلب الكثير

كل ما في بلادي مر
كل ما في المهجر حر
لكني لا أترك بلادي
لكني لا أترك العمر

------------------------
27 أبريل 2003

منتهى الأشياء

منتهى الأشياء

تهرب الروح تاركة دنيا الفناء
إلي ربٍ يُسكنها جنة السعداء
فإليك – منتهى الأشياء


يا إلهي.. كل فكرة وكل خاطر و كل رأي يبدأ من عندك و ينتهي عندك. دائما أبحث و دائما أفكر. دائما أتتبع مبدأ كل شيء و منتهاه فأجد مبدأ كل خلق عندك و نهايته إليك. كل شيء يبدأ من عندك و يصل إليك. كل الأحلام و الأفكار و المخاوف و الأطماع تنتهي و تصل إليك.. هو ملكك نعم هو ملكك كله منك و إليك و أجد أن إليك منتهى الأشياء


ترنو عيون العقل إلي الفضاء
يضنيها طول السهر و تأمل المساء
ينتهي بها سفر الأفكار من السُحُبِ إلي السماء
و إليك – منتهى الأشياء


منتهى العقل إليك
منتهى الروح إليك
من السماء و إلي السماءمن عندك تبدأ و إليك – منتهى الأشياء

Bitter-Sweet Hope

How & why do we lose hope? & if it dies in our hearts, then how does it manage to come back to life again? How does it die & how does it wake up again? & how can we stop this continuous process from hurting us? Hope is a bitter-sweet feeling.. Really it is. Enjoy the new piece.

Bitter-Sweet Hope

Into my life you come & go
I wonder why you do me so
---------------------------
You disappear
I drown in my tear
..ate up by my fear
---------------------------
Then you shine in grace
You fill up the space
You open your embrace
My sorrow fades.. absolutely no trace
----------------------------
Then you turn your back.. you leave
My heart dries.. like a withering leaf
----------------------------
Into my life, you come & go
I feel the pain, yet welcome you though
I wonder why you do me so

في قلبي كل الأكوان

فارق معي هذا الزمان
أسبح معي فوق المكان
أٌٌُُريك كوناً غير الأكوان
كل شيء عندي له وجود له حضور له كيان

لقاء الندي و الزهور
لقاء الماء و النور
أري فيهم سرور

همس الشجر
رقص المطر
و ألوان الحجر
كلٌ أُوليه النظر

حتى القمر
و ليالي السهر
و أنين البشر
لهم عندي ألف وتر

حتى تكرار غناء الطيور
ذلك الموال الصبور
له عندي حضور

كل ما في الصدور
... كل الأمور
أفلاك تدور
لها عندي حضور

في قلبي كل الأكوان
كل الأفراح, كل الهموم
كل العقول , كل الجنون
أحتويهم في قلبي الحنون

28/ 7/ 2003

A tap on the shoulder

As the day grows older
Your energy falls shorter
Your heart becomes colder
And you miss having a partner

At night..
As it becomes darker
Your feelings grow tender
But your hopes surrender
And you miss having a partner
You miss.. a tap on the shoulder

Written some time ago, 10/11/2005

أنت و أنا

Whenever I listen to one of my friends complaining about a relationship, I remember this poem which I wrote millions of years ago, and I believe -even more than I already do- that men are from Mars and women are from heaven.. oops! I mean Venus

أنت و أنا

أنت أنت.. و أنا أنا
تحدثنا و لا تحدثنا
ضحكنا و لا فرحنا
تقاربنا و لا تفاهمنا
تواعدنا و لا تلاقينا
تهامسنا و لا تواصلنا
اشتقنا و لا تراحمنا
يا حبيبي..
أحببنا و لا أحببنا
لا امتزجنا و لا انفصلنا
تجمدنا تجمدنا
أنت أنت.. و أنا أنا

Military Museums,

Learning the lesson from history

What happens to me, and what do I think of, when I visit military museums?! A lot I should say. Last month I visited the military museum of Al-Alamain, and last weekend I visited Port Said’s one.
All those complex weapons, knifes, guns, uniforms. All those broken forks, spoons, and rusty water bottles. All those half-crashed tools and dishes. All this toil that shows on the soldiers’ faces. All those looks of fear. All those coffins in the pictures and displayed in the showroom. All those glittering medals worn by Generals riding on the backs of lively Arabian horses. What is all that? And for what?
Those are two letters by an Australian soldier in World War II writing to his sister. He starts the first letter by clearly stating that those are just few lines to say that he’s fine. Yet, he gives half the first page to asking and talking about the family, and starts talking about his news only in the second part. It’s as if he’s talking to them and about them just to feel that he still belongs to them; asking questions and giving advice – a clear sign of loneliness.
The only thing he mentions about the countries he’s moving to and from is the weather; specifically the coldness of the weather. Isn’t this strange? This person is from Australia not from South Africa. A man from the West is describing the weather of the East as cold?!! And not only that, but also defining the differences between the countries only through the degree of coldness. Among all the things one can see while staying in a foreign country, this soldier describes nothing and sees nothing but the cold weather, and the best thing that happened to him is that although he moved from the cold Palestine to the even colder Syria, he lives now in a hut not a tent. Away from home, he’s just moving from a cold place to a colder one, and when he writes to his family to say “I’m fine”, he just says I’m living in a cold world.
He talks about the heavier clothes he’s putting on, to defend himself from the cold weather. He tells his sister to number the letters so that he would know if he loses any. He talks about his mother’s and his aunt’s letters, and mentions one sentence about a job he has, then what? He goes back to talking about the cold weather. When there are no clouds, he looks out of the window just to see the mountains covered with snow. He says that he covered thousands of miles since he had left home, and will cover more before he goes back home. Then, he remembers a family member only to ask about his cold fit.
What’s all this talk about the weather? The bad weather. The cold, cloudy, snowy weather. This thought is interrupted only to talk about a way to avoid losing letters. What’s all this sense of loss, loneliness, and home sickness? This is not a person who is creating a glorious history for his nation. This is a person who is very defeated inwardly. What more he could have said to tell his leaders that wars are lost cases. Those humans; their feelings, their lives, and their stories are the price readily paid by nations for history to win power. And history keeps repeating itself and nobody is learning the lesson.