A Sea of Sand

Written by: Fatima Al Nahidh

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb 

We disregard; I emphasized every syllable of the word. Times change, we change, grow up, and start looking the other way to stay alive.  But he said one sentence only, while staring at the horizon stretching endlessly before him; if only those who said this would experience what I had been through

It hadn’t been easy for me to know, in those moments whenever we reached that edge, the sun would drown in a well of darkness, and we would part with heartache. But I could swear that we, as creatures blended with myriad lusts, tended to forget our traumas so we could go on. Our enemy, the time, deliberately awarded us one motive after another to jostle forward with our pains and broken dreams on the road to the terra incognita of oblivion, only to lose them there and go back to perhaps resume the same sins and harvest desire and agony

It was neither a confession session nor a sudden strike of transparency, let a lone a planned one. We just walked and let our feet take us towards calmness, and silence walked kindly between us like a mutual friend

He stopped for a while as if trying to ascertain the place, so I stopped as well. He then marched on, and I walked next to him and the silence

There was nothing but sands across the land. They rose a bit to form a dune, rose more to look like a hill, rose more and more to perhaps become a mountain, but then went flat like a sea spreading mercilessly, and then leveled some more like an infertile dry valley

There were only sands, and nothing else!

The astronomical moon seemed extremely close, much like a shield ornamenting a wall, sprinkling glistening silver on the peaks, and leaving us in a peaceful unknown

We shall have a rest on top of that dune; he clarified when we got closer to a sand dune about fifty steps away. I sensed that he said so because I had started panting with the effort of disentangling my bare feet from the softness of the sands with each step. I felt my back stoop a little as the walk upward towards the dune got steeper, as if the desert had been tilting

We walked a distance immeasurable with any decimal system ever since we left the camp an hour ago, going silently most of the time through silken sands, content merely with the company of each other

When we finally reached the top of the dune, we emerged onto a large open area of green meadow, with grass springing from the sands and extending to an end unknown to us. I screamed childishly: O God, why didn’t we camp here; my God where did this grassland come from? Is this your secret hideout

We sat down, silence along with everything before us bathed in an ocean of silver. He was looking at the far horizon, my hands were playing with the soft and juicy grass, not believing it was filling the spaces between my fingers, caressing it, touching the little flowers that glowed with sweet dew under the moonlight, forming circles, stars, lines, letters, and unlinked points

Then, like reading from a book, he said

 We cannot continue looking the other way. Our pasts don’t die; we are prisoners behind no bars, we foolishly think we left them behind, but they rise in their due time, to announce their barbaric presence

  My hand was still holding on to the coolness that was slowly slipping through my fingers; he was not waiting for a reply, and continued reading

That stormy night, they put us in the prison bus after covering our heads with sacks. I cannot remember how long we traveled, but it sure was a long drive, the only sound we heard was that of the squeaking joints of the bus. Sometimes we heard the sound of air ripped by a car speeding like an arrow, and every so often a coughing sound from the end of the bus broke our anxiety. We finally stopped, they got us down, uncovered our heads, and we found ourselves on sands like these

He held his arm high with a handful of sand from the heart of the grass and started slowly scattering it in the wind away from my face. He then took a deep breath

We didn’t know that there was another truck behind us, they brought from it excavating tools, piled them in front of us, and told us to get to work

Our hearts were gripped with terror. The first thing we thought, while digging under the threats of the loaded guns and the slowly growing sandstorm that had been stroking our spines, was that they were going to bury us in mass graves dug by our own hands. They didn’t talk much; they were just prompting us to dig faster, but we stalled fearfully for more time to live, and slowed down the digging

We consumed about all the time we could stall for; after all how much time do you need to dig a hole your size, and in a sandy area? We were around fifteen prisoners but they asked each of us to dig two holes

Our hearts were roaring violently, and maybe their tumult reached climax as we stood in front of our open holes waiting for orders. Some of us struggled to keep standing straight, with knees knocking in fear, before destiny gave us a break; each one of us was ordered to bring a corpse from the truck and bury it in a hole. Just then, we realized that the covered truck was carrying a load of dead people too

We walked to the truck with steps heavy like iron. Each one carried a corpse on his shoulder, headed towards his two holes, buried it hurriedly, and ran again to the truck to bring another one. I guess we were just afraid they would change their minds and ask us to jump into our second holes

We couldn’t believe when we finally got back on the bus that we had actually survived, just like that. We didn’t talk on our way back but when we reached our cells, the dawn was approaching, so we just collapsed on our bunks from tiredness and restlessness. Those of us who had dozed all through the journey continued the rest of their nightmares till sunrise

For seven nights and in the same manner, we labored in burying countless corpses. By then, we had known the exact location by calculating the distance, but we had become like machines that failed to recognize their own parts. It didn’t matter much, because we had lost forever our humanity along with our dreams

I buried fourteen people, dug their graves with my own hands, and carried them on my weary shoulders. I laid them in small holes and large holes all the same, and covered them with sands. I still could feel their smell in my lungs. Some of them were lightweight and petit, some had fresh wounds, and some had broken jaws or limbs; one of them dropped one of his eyes on my hand

In many instances, our shovels hit corpses that we had previously buried because we were so disoriented from stress. Many times, we found the graves and the corpses uncovered by the blows of the passing winds and we had to rebury them again. Sometimes the dead were actually not completely dead

He suddenly stood up and looked far away, as if to seek refuge in the stretching horizon

The dead used to visit me in the night, looking the same way they did when I buried them, and ask me, why? And honestly, all I could remember was fourteen corpses; after that I got mixed up and could not distinguish between what was real and what was mere optical hallucination. After the fourteenth corpse, whenever they got us out of the bus, we would see a large area of corpses thrown out of their graves, waiting for us, as if the sand sea spat them out to float on its waves again

Illness then rescued me from the burying rituals. I was admitted to the prison hospital for a long time before they eventually pardoned a group of us old prisoners, those whose opinions were a threat to no one any more, not even to stray animals. We were finally free of our obsession of being buried half-alive by our friends one day

I saw him clearly in the moonlight, my throat was dry, and my stomach was churning. I was afraid he would hear the beating of my heart or hear my soul fighting not to wail. He was looking straight at me and pointing to the moonlit grassland, when he said

We … buried them here

   بحر الرمل 

قصة فاطمة الناهض

نتجااااااااااااااااااوز، أكَّدتُ عليها بكل  (الألفات) المتجاوره،

الزمن يتغير،نحن نتغير، ننضج،و نتجاوز ،لنعيش.

لكنه قال جملة واحدة فقط، وهو ينظر الى امتداد الأفق اللانهائي: لو أن من يقول ذلك، مرّ بما مررت به.

ليس من السهل أن أعرف  ، في كل اللحظات التي  نصل فيها الى ذلك الحائط ،تسقط الشمس في بئر الظلام ونفترق على حزن، لكنني أكاد أجزم أن طبيعتنا كمخلوقات معجونة  بالشهوات التي لا تحصى ،ميّالون لنسيان الأذى كي نستمر ،وأن عدوّنا الوقت يمنحنا السبب تلو الآخر كي نتدافع  بآلامنا وأحلامنا الكسيرة نحو مجاهل النسيان،نضيّعها هناك ونعود  نستأنف  ربما الخطايا نفسها ونحصد اللّذائذ وآلامها..

لم تكن جلسة مصارحة ولا شفافيه مفاجئه ولا حتى مخطط لها. نحن مشينا  فقط كما أخذتنا أقدامنا صوب السكينه، وصديقنا الصمت  يسير بيننا حنوناً إلى ابعد مدى.

توقف قليلا  كأنه يستجلي المكان فوقفت،تابع فمشيت الى جانبه، بمحاذاة الصمت.

لم يكن هناك غير الرمل على مد البصر. يرتفع قليلا فيصبح كثيبا،يرتفع أكثر فيصبح شبه هضبة،أكثر فأكثر ليبدو ربما جبلا ،ثم ينبسط كبحر ممتد بلا هواده، أكثر فيغدو مثل واد  غير ذي زرع ولا ماء.

رمل ولا شيء آخر.

القمر الهائل  يبدو قريبا جدا  ،كأنه ترس معلق على حائط ، ينثر فضته  اللامعة على كامل التخوم  ويتركنا  آمنين في  مجهول رحيم.

سنرتاح بعد ذلك الكثيب.أوضح ونحن نقترب من ارتفاع رملي  على بعد  خمسين خطوة تقريبا،كان يملأني شعور بأنه قال ذلك لأني بدأت ألهث قليلا وأنا انتشل قدماي الحافيتان  من  الغوص في نعومة الرمل الفائقة بعد كل خطوه،ويتقوس ظهري بعض الشيء كلما ارتفع المسار صوب الكثيب، وكأن الصحراء بدأت تميل!

قطعنا مسافة لا يمكن ان أحسبها بالوحدات القياسيه،لكنا تركنا المخيم منذ ساعة تقريبا ،نجوس في  رمل رقيق،صامتين اغلب المسافة وراضيين بمجرد الصحبه.

 ما أن وقفنا على الكثيب  حتى انكشف على نحو مفاجيء بساط   ممتد من العشب ،يبدأ من الرمل ولا نعرف أين يتوقف .صرخت بطفولة: الله…لماذا لم نخيّم هنا..يا الله من أين جاء كل هذا العشب والنوّير،أهو  مخبأك السري؟

جلسنا،وصديقنا الصمت، وكل ما أمامنا يعوم في الفضّه.

مد بصره صوب أفق بعيد  خافت ،ويداي تعبثان  بالعشب كأنني لا أصدق أنه بين أصابعي،تمشط طراوته..تتحسس النوّير المغموس بالضوء والندى…تصنع دوائر ونجوم..خطوطا وحروف..ونقاطا لا يصل بينها شيء.

ثم ، وكأنه يقرأ من كتاب: لا نستطيع ان نتجاوز..لأن مواضينا لا تموت..نحن أسرى بلا قضبان، نظن أننا نسينا..لكنها  تنهض في وقتها،لتعلن عن وجودها  الهمجي.

ظلت يدي قابضة على البروده المنسابة بين الأصابع،وهو لم يكن ينتظر أي رد ،فاستأنف القراءه:

أخرجونا في تلك الليلة العاصفة في باص السجن وقد غطوا رؤوسنا بأكياس القماش.لا أتذكر كم قطعنا كان الدرب طويلا،والصوت الوحيد الذي كنا نسمعه كان لرفّاصات الباص  واحتكاك مفاصله الجافه ،أحيانا كنا نسمع صوت الهواء تشقه سيارة تمرق كسهم،وأحيانا صوت سعال في آخر الباص يقطع التوجس.

توقفنا. أنزلونا،كشفوا رؤوسنا فوجدنا أنفسنا في رمل مثل هذا،

رفع يده بقبضة رمل ناعم  من بين العشب وراح يذروها  ببطء بعيدا عن وجهي  ثم  اخذ نفسا عميقا:

لم نكن نعلم أن هناك شاحنة خلفنا. جلبوا منها  أدوات للحفر  ألقوها في أكوام أمامنا وقالوا هيّا.

قبض على قلوبنا الذعر ، أول ما تبادر الى أذهاننا ونحن نحفر تحت تهديد السلاح  والعاصفة الرملية المتأنيه في  مشيها تتحسس  جذوعنا، أننا سندفن في قبور نحفرها بأيدينا،وهم لم يكثروا الكلام،كانوا يحثوننا على الإسراع ونحن نشتري وقتا إضافيا لأعمارنا بالتباطؤ في الحفر.

استهلكنا كل ما يمكن من وقت نقدر عليه، كم تحتاج لحفر حفرة على  مقاسك، وعلى أرض رمليه؟كنا خمسة عشر وطلبوا  أن يحفر كل منا حفرتين.

كانت قلوبنا تصخب بعنف ولربما  وصل لغطها الى الحدود ونحن واقفون كل أمام حفرتيه بانتظار الأوامر.بعضنا خارت قواه واصطكت ركبتاه في الانتظار قبل أن يأتي الفرج: كل واحد يحمل جثة من الشاحنة ويضعها في الحفرة ويهيل عليها التراب.

وعرفنا أن الشاحنة المغطاة بالقماش السميك كانت تحمل أكواما من الموتى أيضا!.

مشينا  صوبها بخطوات ثقيلة كالحديد،حمل كل  منا جثة  على كتفه واتجه صوب حفرته،  وقام  بالدفن السريع ليجلب جثة أخرى  كأنهم سيغيرون رأيهم فجأة ويطلبون منا القفز الى الحفرة الثانيه.

لم نصدق ونحن نصعد الى الباص أننا نجونا هكذا. لم نتكلم لكنا حين عدنا الى الزنزانات كان الفجر يقترب فارتمينا شبه مغمى علينا من التعب  والهلع وكان بعضنا قد غفا في الطريق فأكمل ما تبقى من كوابيسه قبل الشروق.

.. ولسبع ليال ..وبالطريقة نفسها..كنا نكدح في دفن  جثث لا تنتهي ،ورغم أننا عرفنا المكان من حساب المسافة  لكننا أصبحنا في نهاية الليلة السابعة كالآلات التي لا تنتمي أجزاءها إليها، ولم يعد ذلك مهماً وقد تجردنا من إنسانيتنا  وأحلامنا إلى الأبد.

دفنت  أربعة عشر إنسانا ، حفرت قبورهم بيدي حملتهم على كتفي رتبت وضعهم في حفر تصغر عليهم أو تكبر قليلا، وأهلت التراب.

روائحهم ما زالت في رئتي، بعضهم كان خفيفا وضئيلا،بعضهم طري الجروح،  بعضهم مهشم الفك أو مكسور الساق، وأحدهم سقطت  إحدى عينيه في يدي.

كثيرا ما ارتطمت معاولنا بجثة سبق أن  دفناها ونحن نخطيء مكان الحفرة الجديدة، وكثيرا ما وجدنا الرياح وقد عرّت القبور و كشفت الجثث، فدفناها من جديد. وأحيانا لا يكون الموتى…ميتون تماما!

هبّ واقفا ونظر  بعيدا كأنه يحتمي بالامتداد:

كان الموتى يأتونني في الليل،بأوضاعهم التي دفنتهم عليها ،ويسألونني : لماذا؟وأُصدقك أن كل ما أتذكره هو أربعة عشر جثة، بعدها  اختلطت الأمور علىّ ولم أتمكن من التمييز بين ما هو حقيقي ومستمر في الحدوث، وما كان  هلوسات بصريه،فبعد الجثة الرابعة عشرة،كانوا كلما أنزلونا من الباص  تراءت لنا ساحة هائلة لا متناهية من جثث  ملقاة خارج قبورها وبانتظارنا،كأن بحر الرمل لفظها فطفت على سطح  الموج من جديد.

تجاوز بي المرض بعدها طقوس الدفن ولازمت مستشفى السجن فترة طويلة  قبل أن يصدر عفو عام شمل مجموعة قديمة من سجناء الرأي ممن لم  تعد آراءهم تهدد حتى الهوام،فتحررنا من هاجس أن يدفننا أصحابنا نصف أحياء ذات يوم..

كنت أراه بوضوح  في ضوء القمر، حلقي جاف وأمعائي تمور وأخشى أن يستمع الى دقات قلبي،أو يسمع روحي تقاوم النحيب .  كان ينظر الىّ مباشرة   حين قال مشيرا الى العشب: دفنّاهم هنا.

كتبهاالأديب الناقد السعيد موفقي ، في 9 يناير 2008 الساعة: 15:28 م

 من المؤكد أنّ البحث عن أسباب بقاء الأشياء و استمرارها يتطلب متوافقات كثيرة بين الذات و العالم الآخر ، المؤثرات الموزعة في كل شيء و بين طبقات النفس الغائرة في تراكمات مختلفة و متنوعة و متناقضة في كثير من الحالات ، التعبير عنها ، يستدعي التمعن فيما تتركه هذه المؤثرات في درجات متفاوتة من حيث التأثير و البفاء و التغيير ، ربما ما نشاهده في الطبيعة يعبر ما في الذات من مقاربات بين العالمين ، تشابه من حيث الحالات الشعورية التي تتفرد بها النفس في مختلف مستوياتها ، هناك عناصر في الطبيعة لا تتطابق مع ما نشعر به فنختار ما يتماثل معها في كثير من أجزائها ، فالإحساس بالألم قد يقابله ما هو أشدّ تأثيرا في النفس و يغرقها في عالم التفرد و الانعزال ، و إذا لم يكن من مما يعبّر أو يفسّر هذا السر ، قد يلجأ الكاتب أو القاص إلى حيلة أراها ناجحة في هذه المجموعة التي كتبها الدكتور عبد الله الطيب ، أول ما نلاحظه في هذه المجموعة تركيزه على ظاهرة الليل و توظيف مقارباته لعدة معان و صور نكتشفها في وقوفه المتأمل ، منطلقا من تساؤلات عميقة ، ثم يقابله بصور أخرى لا تخلو من تأمل ممعن يركب فيها صور السعادة التائهة بين مختلف ظواهر الحياة المنشغل بالترف و الزهو و الرقص و الفرح المفرط ، بينما ، عالم آخر غارق في متاهات القلق و العذاب زو الألم و الموت و الحياة ، يرسم أحلامه من هباء ما تلبث أن تتبخر مع أول هزة حارة وافدة من عالم من مختلف الجهات ،

ففي قصة (شقوق) أو البحث عن السعادة نلمس تراصف صور متناقضة تجمع بين الليل و الصبح ، و أشياء أخرى لم يجمعها التآلف و لكن الكاتب أراد أن يختلق لها مبررات من طبيعة جديدة ربما هي كسر روتين الحياة و بعث التجدد و الاتزان في التكيف مع عناصر الحياة و لو من باب المواساة ((في تلك الليلة.. الثالثة صباحاً.. مع ترنُّحات المتخمين.. ضحكات المدخنين.. زغاريد المهنئين.. وتهدهد المحرومين…..)) ، فهذا امتزاج بين الصورة و الصوت ، البحث عن الائتلاف الآني في ظل تشتت واضح للذهن ، و استغراق صارخ في ثنايا الليل المتجدد الطبق ((كنت أراقب المشهد المثير خارج الفندق.. حيث تلفني سحائب الدخان المنبثق من سيجارتي.. تعبت من زيف الكلام.. واتساع الشفاه.. والإنتشاء بغير مافعل.. تركت ذلك.. وخرجت بحثاً عن الهدوء.. واللقطات الغافلة.. رأيت جزءاً من تفكيري وخيالاتي وعشقي فيها.. غريب.. كيف يعشق الإنسان الهزيمة والإنكسار بكبرياء!…..)) ، هل هو الضياع ؟ قد يبدو كذلك لكن مع تركيز بسيط نجد تنقل الكاتب بين أماكن مختلفة يعني التنوع في الحركة و اللون و الصوت و الشعور توالدت دفعة واحدة و على مراحل ليست متباعدة من حيث استقرارها ، و لم يكن الكاتب ارتجاليا في هذه الطريقة ، و كان بإمكانه أن يختار أسلوب العرض المباشر و يترك القارئ يتيه مع المشاهد المتداخلة ، يبحث عنها بنفسه وهو مقيد بجملة من المحطات القصيرة ، و لذا كان اختياره ناجحا في توسيع مجالات التأمل و ربط البدايات بالنهايات كشرط أساسي في تكديس الأحداث ولو لصورة واحدة مجزأة ، و في اعتقادي هذا هو الأسلوب الأنسب …فصور الليل و الخوف و الألم و الصمت كلها مكرسة لمعنى من المعاني التي يريد الكاتب بها رسالة إلى القارئ ليتفطن لأهمية الحالة الشعورية التي عاشها البطل من البداية إلى النهاية (( أيهذا الليل.. ما الذي يختبئ في جوفك.. هل أخفت المعجزات بجوفك حقاً لكل البشر.. دعني فألتحم بك.. أودع فيك تقرحاتي.. وألتقي بنفسي وغيري.. لعلي أفيق.. سرقتني الأضواء والثياب الجديدة.. أدمت أنفي العطور الثمينة.. فلا أنفه.. تلك الوجوه الصاخبة في الفندق.. فقط الليل.. يعيدني إلى الحارة.. والأكواخ الخشبية.. والوجوه المغضنة البسيطة.. والسراج المتعب…….)) ، و في محطات أخرى من القصة أدرك الكاتب أهمية الاستشفاف الذي ينبغي أن يحققه من القارئ في مواضع تبدو غير ذات بال و لكنها في نظر الكاتب تحمل أكثر من معنى ، عندما تتلاقى الصور الواقعية أمام نظر كل الناس أو بعضهم سيكون لذلك هدف لا يدرك القارئ مباشرة إلا بعد أن يدرك طبيعة الأشياء التي يمارسها الآخرون بحكم قوانين مناقضة للطبيعة معادية لأسباب الحياة في ماضيها أو حاضرها و في مستقبلها ، و هذا اعتقاد سليم و مقنع في التأثير على القارئ و اكتساب تأييده و تحريك مقومات شخصيته الكامنة التي خمدت و لم تجد من يحركها في عالم التبست في كثير من الأمور التي يضطر إليها في مثل هذه الظروف العصيبة ((عرضتُ عليها المساعدة.. وحملتُ الكيس كإبني.. وأقفلتُ عيني.. و فتحتُ قلبي.. ودفعتْ يدي بشئ داخل الكيس.. لم تقل شيئا.. فقط منحتني طمأنينة.. ومشينا.. ولم أعد أرى الشقوق الملتمعة…..)) ، و لا زال الكاتب يركز على ملاحظته لأشياء بسيطة و لكنها مثيرة ، توظيفه لكلمة (شقوق) ذات دلالة مركزية للقصة بشكل عام ، تجمع بين المشهد القاسي للحياة و السعي إلى إيجاد المتنفس المفقود على الرغم من وجوده ((وتحدثنا.. ولم أعد أرى العباءة القصيرة.. ولا المنديل المكوم.. أغلقتُ عيني.. وفتحتُهما.. لازال الكيس بيدي.. والبياض بجوفي.. ولكنِّي لم أعد أراها!!….)) لم يكتف الكاتب بوضع حدود الظاهرة بين هذه القساوة و صراع العالم المستمر، عندما انطلق الكاتب في عرض أحداث هذه القصة لم تكن المسألة مجرد تفصيل لحادثة بقدر ما كانت المسألة أبعد من هذه الظواهر الكثيرة و المركبة في عمقها تركيبا ظالما ، المتسبب فيه الإنسان نفسه ثم يعجز عن إيجاد الحلول المناسبة ،

و هذه صورة أخرى استشعرها الكاتب في قصته الثانية (قبلة الشتاء.. والدود) و هو بحث آخر عن وجوه الليل الملتبسة ، هاجس آخر لظاهرة طبيعية موغلة في نفس البطل مؤثرة في تركيبة مرتكزات حركاتها و سكوتها ، إنّه الصراع الجديد كما يفسره الكاتب في تعاقب هذه الظواهر و لم يكن من البساطة أن نشاهد أو نسمع بالأشياء دون الوقوف عند مكوناتها الحقيقية التي تعتبر في حقيقة الأمر محيرة بالنسبة للكاتب من جهة و اعتقاده بحيرة القارئ إزاءها من جهة أخرى ، ربما نفسر حيرة اىلكاتب كانت أشد بالمقارنة مع الموقف الذي أبداه إزاء أهمية الليل و ما يشكل في مكونات نفسية البطل و تعامله مع باقي عناصر الطبيعة و الواقع ((من يطفئ انتفاضات الليل؟.. أفسحوا المجال لعصبية الصيف في أيديكم لتعمل في جسدي.. فقط أعطوني راحة "ثانية" حبلى بالفرح.. أظافري احتضرت على رأسي.. ودورة تمنحها الحياة والشقاء الدائم لي…..)) تعقيب واضح لانطباعات قارة في نفسية البطل ، تساؤلات متكررة و لكنها مختلفة و حائرة ؟ ((ــ لم تقولوا لي كل شتاءٍ وأنتِ بخير.. ــ ولماذا.. نحن لا نحبكِ! ــ ولكن.. أنا أتيت بكم!؟ ــ إرجعينا إن شئتِ.. ولا تمنِّي ــ ألا تهمكم راحتي؟ ــ إنتهت وظيفتك.. فاتركينا……)) و لجوء الكاتب إلى أسلوب المحاورة له أكثر من دلالة على مستوى توزيع أفكاره ، حتى لا تبقى حكرا على معنى واحد ، و بالتالي يتوقف سير الأحداث عند حد معين دون تفصيل و توضيح لمختلف أجزاء الموقف على مرحل تنقلات البطل ، البدء بالإعجاب إلى المقاربة بين الواقع و السطحي كما جاء على لسان البطل ، و كل الأحداث التي صادفته كانت من باب التجريب كما لو أنّه يعتزم أمرا لم يشأ أن يظهره في بداية الأحداث و يتركه لظهور مبررات واقعية مقنعة تجعل القارئ له دراية و لو جزئية بطبيعة الأحداث و يكون في نهاية الأحداث على وعي تام بالأسباب الحقيقة التي تجعل الصدفة بعيدة عن مجالها ((أعجبني منطقه.. سطحي ولكن واقعي.. لم لا نجرب!.. ذهبت إليهم.. أقنعتهم بأن نمنحها جميعاً قبلة الشتاء.. وفي المنتصف ولدت شجرة المبادرة اللعينة.. من يبدأ.. أنا أو أنت.. أو هو.. أو هي؟.. نهاران كاملان.. ولم نبدأ.. وخدُّها يذوي كل يوم.. في الصباح التالي كان كالثلج.. قلت أهرع إليه من جديد…….)) ثم نلاحظ تركيز الكاتب على تكثيف المفارقات عند موازنته بين مختلف الحركيات المنسوبة إلى ضمائر مختلفة ، حاضرة و غائبة ، متكلمة و مخاطبة (من يبدأ.. أنا أو أنت.. أو هو.. أو هي؟..) و هي ذات ثلاث مفارقات ، المفارقة الأولى : المبادرة بالتغيير و جاءت اختيارية بين مختلف الضمائر ، و ازدواجية الزمن في ثنائية النهار المتكرر ، و هي عملية استغراق في اللاوعي للبطل الذي جدد ممارسته الصعبة لتفاعلات الحياة الغامضة و اللجوء إلى الانتظار، في كل تعاقب بين و الليل و النهار ، و إن كانت أمنيته في هذا التعاقب أن تستمر صورة النهار أكثر من صورة الليل و الدليل (نهاران كاملان) ((ــ كلام الليل.. يمحوه النهار! ــ ولكني صادق.. ــ ضع أفعالك مكان لسانك.. ــ حسنا.. ــ لا شك أنك تهزأ.. دود الشتاء بدأ عمله في الخد الذابل.. قلنا لك مرارا.. أن تضع أفعالك مكان لسانك.. فات الأوان.. إجلس معنا نقتات جحودنا..!…)) و في نهاية هذه الصورة لم يكتف الكاتب بتركيبها دون أن يبدي ولو وجهة نظر مادام الهدف إقناع القارئ في مختلف مستوياته ((ــ أنت ملعون.. اشنقني.. أسل دمي قطرة قطرة.. احرقني.. ودبِّرْني.. الراحة فقط..ــ لست بفيلسوف.. هو الكلام.. لم يبق إلا خرير الندم.. حدِّثْ..لا تتوقف عن النواح.. والكلام.. حتى امتلاء عينيك.. بالدود!)) النهاية غريبة بما أنّ اللعنة التي اختارها كانت نتيجة حتمية ، و التصور الذي تركه في ذهن القارئ ألا يبتعد كثيرا عن الحقيقة المفرغة من طبيعتها باعتبار تجاور كل الأشياء لا يبتعد كثيرا أيضا ، لأنّ البحث عن الاستقرار أو الراحة كما عبّر عنها البطل (الراحة فقط..ــ لست بفيلسوف) كادت تستقر في الشفاه و لا تتعدى حدود السماع ، و ضاقت في دائرة لا متنفس فيها و اشتدّ الخوف ، حاصر البطل على الرغم من بحثه المستمر عن الرفاهية التي أكسبت الآخرين ما لم تكسب البطل لا في القليل و لا الكثير ، لأنّ مصدر الخوف حاضر في كل حركاته و سكناته يمكن أن يكون الأمر مثل أغرب كائن يحمل في طبيعته ما لايتاح لجميع الكائنات ، لكنه منبوذ و مذموم ، هو الخوف بعينه ، كيف يمكن أن يستقر وصورته البشعة تحوم حوله و لا تغادر مخيلته المشبعة بإرهاصاته منذ بداية الصراع ،

قصة (خفافيـش)((نتسلق الخوف .. ونبلغ القمة .. ومع ذلك نعيش برفاهية !! مجدةٌ هي الشمس .. لا تزال تكافح بقوة واهنة وهي تمد خيوطهـا العنكبوتيـة لتعلن انتصـارها المتكرر.. والخفافيش لم تزل تلعن الشمس.. إنها الطاغوت الأكبر.. فهي تسلبهم حقهم في الحياة كل يوم دون ملل.. تضئ أنفسهم لأنفسهم فقط ليزدادوا إظلاما.. ….)) و بذلك يمكن أن نقول : كانت معالجة الكاتب لصورة الليل و الخوف و التعاسة و الصمت من وراء فلسفة تجارب الحياة في مختلف توجهاتها و تناقضاتها قناعة انتهى بها الكاتب في حدود ما فسر به هذه التجارب و يقابله في الطبيعة .

 
كتبهاد. عبدالله الطيب، في 17 April 2009 14:49 PM———————————————
 

- When are you going to stop fighting with the boys in school? I see new cuts and bruises on your body and your face everyday.

مسيرة النساء ، قصيدة الكاتبة البريطانية سيسلي هاملتون  

ترجمة الدكتور عبدالله الطيب

مسيرة النساء

اهتفن اهتفن .. علِّين الغناء

اصرخن مع الريح .. فالفجر سيطلع

سرن .. سرن .. اختلن ميلا

بعلم يرفرف .. وأمل يفيق

أغنية في قصة .. وأحلام في مجد

إنهم ينادون بسرور .. ياللعجب

إلى الأمام .. اصغين كيف يعلوا

رعد الحرية ..  صوت السماء

نحن في الماضي .. طويلاً .. طويلا

جبنا بخوف من نور السماء

قويات .. قويات .. نقف أخيرا

بشجاعة .. وإيمان .. ورؤية جديدة

قوة في جمال .. و حياة في عمل

اسمعن النداء .. اسمعن .. ولبِّين

هؤلاء .. هؤلاء .. إلينا يشيرون

افتحن أعينكن .. على يوم سيشرق

رفيقات الجهاد .. انتن الجريئات

أوائل المعركة في القتال والحزن

ازدريتن .. احتقرتن .. ولم تأبهن

فأعينكن مشرعة على غد واعد

عبر طرق مرهقة .. وأيام كئيبة

تحملتن الآلام والجهد .. بثقة وإيمان

مرحى .. مرحى .. نقف منتصرات

ننسج الإكليل .. الذي ارتداه الشجعان

حياة .. نضال .. اثنان في واحد

يؤخذ النصر بالجسارة .. والإيمان

كل ما فعلتوه في ما مضى

كان استعدادا لعمل هذا اليوم

بعزم التوكل .. اطلقن المقاومة

واضحكن بأمل .. فالنهاية وشيكة

سرن .. سرن .. كلنا كواحدة

كتف بكتف .. وصديقة بصديقة

تعريف بالكاتبة:

ولدت سيسلي هاملتون في بادنجتون ، بريطانيا عام 1872.  بدأت حياتها المهنية كمعلمة ، لكنها تركت المهنة وعملت كممثلة وبرزت في ادوار مسرحيات شكسبير.  اتجهت سيسلي إلى الكتابة المسرحية ونجحت في ذلك.  ساهمت سيسلي في الحركة النسائية عبر كتابها تجارة الزواج والذي ناقشت فيه كيف ان النساء ينشأن لغرض النجاح في الزواج ، وذلك يعطل تطورهم الذهني. خلال الحرب العالمية الأولى ، ساهمت سيسلي في العمل التطوعي النسائي في مجال التمريض والعلاج.

بعد الحرب ، عملت سيسلي كصحفية وكتبت في مطبوعات مثل الدايلي ميرور والدايلي اكسبرس.  تعاونت مع المؤلفة الموسيقية اثيل سميث في تقديم قصيدة مسيرة النساء للجمهور.

توفيت الكاتبة عام 1952

The March of the Women

Shout, shout, up with your song!

Cry with the wind, for the dawn is breaking.

March, march, swing you along.

Wide blows our banner and hope is waking.

Song with its story, dreams with their glory.

Lo, they call and glad is their word

Forward! Hark how it swells.

Thunder of freedom, the voice of the lord

Long, long, we in the past

Cowered in dread from the light of heaven

Strong, strong, stand we at last.

Fearless in faith and with sight new given

Strength with its beauty, life with its duty

Hear the voice, oh, hear and obey

These, these, beckon us on

Open your eyes to the blaze of day

Comrades, ye who have dared

First in the battle to strive and sorrow

Scorned, spurned, naught have you cared.

Raising your eyes to a wider morrow

Ways that are weary, days that are dreary,

Toil and pain by faith ye have born

Hail, hail, victors we stand

Weaving the wreath that the brave have worn!

Life, strife, these two are one!

Naught can ye win but by faith and daring

On, on, that ye have done.

But for the work of today preparing

Firm in reliance, launch a defiance

Laugh in hope, for sure is the end

March, march, many as one

Shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend

Cicely Hamilton

 Cicely Mary Hamilton, the daughter of Danzil Hammill and Maude Piers, was born in Paddington on 15th June 1872.   After an education at a boarding school in Malvern, Cicely became a pupil-teacher. She disliked the work and soon found employment as an actress with a touring company. It was during this time she changed her name from Hammill to Hamilton. In 1897 Hamilton joined a Shakespearian company led by the English actor, Edmund Tearle. Over the next few years she appeared as Gertrude in Hamlet, Emilia in Othello and one of the witches in Macbeth.

Unable to obtain leading roles on the London stage, Hamilton decided to turn to writing. Her first play, The Traveler Returns, was performed at the Pier Theatre, Brighton, in May 1906. This was followed by Diana of Dobsons. The play was an immediate success and ran at the Kingsway, London, for 143 performances.

In 1908 Hamilton joined the Women’s Social and Political Union. However, Hamilton disliked the autocratic way that Emmeline Pankhurst ran the organization and after a few months left to join the Women’s Freedom League. She was also a founder member of the Actresses’ Franchise League and the Women Writers Suffrage League. Hamilton wrote two propaganda plays, How the Vote was Won (1909) and A Pageant of Great Women. She also joined with the composer, Ethel Smythe, to write March of the Women.

Hamilton’s most important contribution to the feminist movement was the influential, Marriage as a Trade (1909). In the book Hamilton argued that women were brought up to look for success only in the marriage market and this severely damaged their intellectual development.

On the outbreak of the First World War, Elsie Inglis, one of the founders of the Scottish Women’s Suffrage Federation, suggested that women’s medical units should be allowed to serve on the Western Front. With the financial support of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies (NUWSS), Inglis formed the Scottish Women’s Hospitals Committee. Hamilton was one of the first women to join the organization and in November 1914 helped to establish the 200 bed Auxiliary Hospital at Royaumont Abbey in France.

In the summer of 1916 Hamilton helped nurse soldiers wounded at the Battle of the Somme. This included treating 300 new patients in three days. Others who worked with her at Royaumont Abbey included Elsie Inglis, Louisa Martindale, Evelina Haverfield and Ishobel Ross.

In May 1917 Hamilton left the Scottish Women’s Hospital Unit and joined the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps. After training in England, Hamilton returned to France where she took control of a postal unit. However, soon afterwards, she was asked to form a repertory company at the Somme. For the rest of the war Hamilton’s company performed a series of plays for Allied soldiers fighting on the Western Front.

After the war Hamilton became a freelance journalist working for newspapers such as the Daily Mail, the Daily Mirror and the Daily Express. She was also a regular contributor to the feminist journal, Time and Tide where she campaigned for free birth control advice for women and the legalization of abortion.

Hamilton’s autobiography Life Errant, was published in 1935. Other books written by Hamilton include Modern Italy (1932), Modern France (1933), Modern Russia (1934), Modern England (1938), Lament for Democracy (1940) and The Englishwoman (1940). Cicely Mary Hamilton died on 6th December, 1952.

ارتكاتا - رواية الكاتب السوداني هشام آدم مترجمة

الفصل الثاني 

Artikata - A novel written by Hisham Adam

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Chapter Two

Cuenca … The Dream of Freedom

- City of Evil Spirits and Roe Deer -

With arrogance, Amado stood up, casting away the dirt that stuck on his pants while speaking in a very bossy way, “the half hour is now over … everybody… get ready”.   The half hour was not exactly over, but time was a subjective matter to him, so we all got back to our spots once again, and continued riding into the cruel calmness of the night, while its coldness was slowly sneaking its way into our underwear, shamelessly.  I was awake all night, deprived of sleep by Amado’s ugly voice singing a folklore song that I could not enjoy much, and the shaking of the vehicle, which failed to stop until we reached Cuenca the dawn of the next day.

The first thing I saw were women carrying tin cans of water over their heads while watching us from far away. In a festive way, Amado started sounding the horn, announcing our arrival.  Everybody was awakened by the sound and all started looking around as if searching for someone. I could see a polite yearning in my mother’s eyes, as she was looking around, and that somehow gave me the feeling of belonging to the place.

As soon as they heard the sound, people started coming out of their houses, and in a way that had a touch of showing off, Amado continued to circle around the place with his vehicle before he stopped in a spacious sandy plaza.

The same festive scenes in Katyusha were repeated once more in Cuenca. I started to feel an unprecedented yearning for Artikata, and I wished everything around me were a passing dream.  The details of the reception, the repeated words and kisses, the curious looks, and the stupid remarks were all very tiring and boring.  Juanita started crying when my mother ignorantly left her with the company of ugly looking girls, while I was left with boys who wore nothing but dirty shorts and undershirts.  Later, I found out that the eldest of the boys was my uncle, Santiago Emilio, whom I saw for the first time, but felt nothing different towards him than I felt towards the rest of the boys.

The most sacred duty of all was to greet elderly people, especially Orville Bodin whom I feared facing the most, bearing my father’s sin in the letters of my name. But contrary to my expectations, he was very nice and gentle.  He was a small-time writer, only known in Artikata.  I heard that he authored a novel, which I had not read at the time, called Beyond the River.  In addition to the fact that he was the priest of the famous Saint Julio church, I was surprised to find out that he married a second woman, named Owamariz Rogelio, much younger and more beautiful than Soledad Fidel!  It was my first encounter with my ethnic roots, and I later discovered that Orville, the polygamist, had antagonized a wide population of Norcks who never accepted polygamy. This was why Soledad packed her bag and left Cuenca with her little daughter, Damita Orville, to Toledo, next to her other daughters who were living with their husbands.

Toledo was a haven for those fleeing the hell of civil war, which erupted in 1936 and lasted for three years, during which the Norcks suffered the most devastating hunger strikes.  They ate oranges for lunch and saved their peels for dinner.  But eventually, Toledo became very famous, and besides, it was the home for the sons and daughters of Orville Bodin, for none was able to stand his moodiness and hot temper.

Some members of the Orville family, who were advocates of the strong family concept, directed their criticism to Soledad Fidel and accused her of dividing the family when she left.  They attributed her act to sheer irresponsible feminine jealousy.  Orville, the priest, had with Soledad alone seven sons and daughters.  My father was the oldest, then Tierra who married her nephew Vardon Russell and went to live in Toledo early on in her marriage years,  then Coretta, the rebel who married a short man from outside the family, and also lived with him in Toledo before the war. Aunt Coretta was the only one who believed in and practiced Totemism, and for that, she was considered as the renegade of the solid Orville family. 

Dulcinea came next. She stayed in Cuenca with her father, not out of love, but a commitment to her husband, who worked there in Marine transportation. Salvador was next, the Organ player and the passionate lover of music and lavish life.  Santos, the most popular amongst the sons of Orville, was quick with a joke, and very cheerful to the extent that one could not believe he was an Orville.  Rumor had it that he died as a result of drinking ill-brewed wine in 1989.  He was the first to die among the sons of Orville Bodin, and his death was the most devastating news that Orvilles had ever received.  Lastly, Damita, the aunt I never liked, and with whom I developed a feeling that later turned into a history of long animosity. From Owamariz Rogelio, Orville had five children; Doctor Zinon, Emerald, Esperanza, Hermenia, and Aldonsa who died of breast cancer in 1999.

Those were just names I read on our family tree, and up until my historic visit to Cuenca, I knew none of them other than Uncle Salvador who was living with us in Artikata until the death of Uncle Santos Orville.

The most difficult task was to get to know the family members, and bond with them.  The boys who had been surrounding me gave me looks I could not rationally explain, as if I was an alien with human features.  The voice of my grandfather Orville Bodin, who was advancing towards me with a slight limp caused by chronic gout, scared the boys away from around me.  He stared at the details of my face which he saw for the first time, and with a mechanical fatherly passion, kissed me once and exclaimed, “So this is Casper then!”

Then Owamariz Rogelio came.  She looked kind; her eyes did not have those cunning looks of Soledad’s. It was puzzling that she welcomed me, and I could not decide whether she really loved me or she was just pretending to please Orville.  Was she really pleased to see me or wanted to show Orville that she could love his sons from his first wife?  However, I discovered that her lips were not moist like Soledad’s, but they had the same smell!

When I finally entered the grand family house, it felt as if I was passing through a time gate to an ancient world.  The feeling was intensified with the sight of dust that inhabited the place. I was anxiously searching for my mother among the crowds when someone surprised me with an advice, close to being an order, go and play with the kids outside.  The kids were busy collecting money to go to the moving theatre which opened every Easter’s morning.  I stood near them, looking around, but showing no interest to participate.  Santiago Emilio came to me, and with a serious voice said, “do you have money?.  I suddenly remembered the banknote that my grandmother Soledad secretly hid in my pocket and I felt ashamed to admit, let alone deny.  But admitting having a miserable banknote was less shameful than denying, which would mean that the rich boy of Artikata was broke, and that would be a stab in my alleged aristocratic pride.  I decided to give him the banknote.  To my astonishment, I immediately discovered that what I was holding in my pocket, carelessly, was a valuable banknote to the extent that everybody else put back their money into their pockets.  That piece of paper was more than enough to get us all to the theatre and buy us beverages too.  I felt proud of Soledad and realized how much she really loved me.

The kids of Cuenca were very good with their hands. They crafted small makeshift cars using empty oil cans, with souls of old shoes dug out of the dumpster, as tires, and long thin sticks with rounded metal bars at their ends, as steering wheels.   I liked those cars very much, and as my face radiated the feeling, one of the boys was kind enough to give me one of them.  That was the start for me to have a real friendship with some of the boys.

At noontime, while the adults were asleep, the boys gathered in a nearby court, holding the sticks of their cars, to go swimming in River Cuervo.  The sight of the river with its clear water was very tempting, that the boys took advantage of the moment, since the adults banned children from swimming.  I was not a good swimmer, so I only played in the shallow area of the river where there were large rounded stones that looked like eggs of a mystic bird.  I was and still am unjustifiably afraid of swimming and the concealed water world.  I felt like I was a shapeless piece of sponge, not knowing the techniques of floating and seeing under water. 

Some boys told me stories – adults invented to scare children away from swimming in the river – about alligators which devoured thousands of men and women of the village and capsized the boats of those who wanted to cross the river to the other side to get medicinal herbs. Despite the fact that I was still in shallow water, I felt that some of those alligators were particularly going to swallow me, leaving all the other boys unharmed.  I felt, in a way, that those damned alligators smelled my fear, and so I began beating the water with my feet to scare them away.  Later, Santiago told me that alligators were scarce species of dinosaurs that took refuge in water bodies at some point in time, fleeing the enormous fire, caused by an erroneous meteor that hit a forest and caused the death of a lot of creatures. He told me how they adopted to living in their new environment.  Although he laughed at how he was able to scare me, I was deeply convinced with that fable.

In the evening, when darkness prevailed, we used to spend our time in the wide sandy court in front of the house of Manuel Emilio, my grandfather from my mother’s side, who settled in Artikata.  Living in this house were my aunts Emayrees and Eldora in addition to my grandmother Mariabella Tancredo.  I could not recall having intimate moments or memories of any of them, and so was the case for all of my relatives from my mother’s side.  Uncle Santiago Emilio used to explain to us the rules of the game “Ojos Del Tigre” or “Eye of the Tiger”.  We would stand with our backs facing north so we would not see him, then he would take an old bone of a dead animal and throw it randomly, and then we would start searching around the place for the bone depending only on the moonlight.

Cuenca, the mountainous city inhabited by evil spirits as Mariabella Tancredo said, was not very scary, notwithstanding the strange sounds heard at night, coming from Las Torcas[1].  While all the stories of Cuenca women agreed that the sounds were of the locked evil spirits in Las Torcas, few people attributed the sounds to the passing wind on the Torcas that looked like inverted trapezoids.  Mariabella said that the souls of the mortals of the civil war, buried in Las Torcas, moved angrily at night, especially those who had their heads separated from their bodies, across the Torcas that together formed what looked like rings of a gigantic chain.  She also said that, once, a priest had besieged them and locked them in the Torcas , which were the main source of the sound, after they refused to live in a large sculpture made especially for them.  This fable was widely believed, especially among the children of Cuenca, who were not allowed to go out at night for whatever reason.

I still could remember the looks on uncle Santos’ face, which radiated lovable warmth, as if he was someone you knew for long time.  I did not witness his naughty days which my father used to make fun of, but people said that, he once was sitting with a friend drinking French wine, and while his friend was trying to pour the wine in small bottles, some of it spelled on the floor. Santos shouted in his face, be careful.  The friend replied back indifferently, Easy Santos, it is only wine, it is not like it is Oil!  But Santos was quick with a convincing counterargument as usual, “the natural place of oil is underground, but wine lodges in the heads!

That day when my mother went with Aunt Coretta Orville to a family funeral, she left me and Morris Lionel for his caring.   While he was busy playing folkloric music on the large piano he had in his room, Morris convinced me to go out and follow our mothers, not for anything but to disobey orders and live an adventure of some sort.  Morris Lionel, who came with his mother, Aunt Coretta, from Toledo, had already visited Cuenca before and that assured me of his knowledge of the area.  On our way to the cemetery, we passed by the wild area of Cuenca, which was considered the most famous deer protectorate in the whole region.  After a half hour of walking, we reached the cemetery.  The grave stones, topped with cross signs, gave me the feeling that the dead were teasing us with their extended wooden tongues from deep under.  The cemetery was desolated and gave me the creeps.  I felt my hair rising like thorns of a hedgehog sharpened for a fight.  There was a strange smell tainting the place, and I imagined it to be the smell of the dead or the smell of death itself. On the other side of the cemetery, tens of men and women, in black, were standing listening to the priest reciting prayers for the dead.  The priest had serious looks and a white beard that sent a chill down my spine.  In front of the crowed, there was a wooden coffin with its cover open, and a man was sleeping peacefully inside, but we could not see him clearly.  He was not bothered with the voice of the priest nor was he annoyed with the sun, which was casting its rays directly upon him.  There were a lot of funeral details worth seeing and so Morris Lionel and I stood behind a pine tree watching attentively until we were spotted by a woman who apparently was not paying attention to the priest.

Our mothers took us back with threats of harsh punishment.  The idea of beating in itself was not scary to me because I was used to it, thanks to my father, but I feared loosing the respect and the status of a new visitor, so I was thinking on our way back of an idea to get me out of this problem. I could not think of any wise idea until I saw my mother and aunt Coretta scolding and insulting uncle Santos because he let us out of his sight while they were gone.  In a firm way, he led us to his room and sat on the bed and ordered us to sit on the floor in front of him.  He was like a judge listening to the accused before pronouncing a harsh sentence.  He asked angrily didn’t I warn you of going out?”  His looks to me in particular carried, in addition to anger, some disappointment.  To my surprise, a genie from nowhere spoke with my voice:

Morris set me up.  He insisted to go out while I was holding him back.  He got out when I was not aware. So I went out looking for him and I asked him to come back but he did not listen to me.  And while I was walking behind him, I saw a deer giving birth, in the wild area. The scene was very interesting and it was my first, and because the deer took long time, I forgot what we were doing and that’s exactly what happened, and God is the witness to that.

That was my first lie and I could still remember all of its details. Although it was naive and badly crafted, uncle Santos liked it and considered it creative for a child my age.  And Morris Lionel, the victim of this creativity had to endure all the punishment alone.  For me, it was a well crafted lie that I felt proud of.  And maybe it was the seed for my talent for writing.  But that thought did not occur to me at the time, for the main reason was to escape punishment, nothing more.

One of the few characters that influenced my talent for writing since childhood was a nigger called Accemen De Rogelio.  Everybody treated him badly and scornfully.  In the beginning, I too treated him scornfully, until one day I secretly heard him say no one can ride on my back unless I stoop, and when he suddenly turned towards me, I ran away thinking that he had a third eye in the back of his head!  His words remained drumming in my ears ever since.  The sadness in his eyes seemed somehow eternal, and that made me very curious that I interrupted my mother, while she was talking with some women, and asked her about him.  She told me he was the descendent of slaves brought from Guinea by a slave trader during a cotton harvest season.  No one knew his exact story but everyone was using him for various reasons without paying him.

Women needed him the most.  They used him to bring water from the river in farming seasons, for feeding animals, carrying baggage and wooden poles, and making stoves.  Some men decided it was best to castrate him because women were increasingly using him inside their houses.  A lot of black slaves were castrated or got their genitals amputated.  Some women said that General Franco ordered his men to use the slaves as human shields in the war.  A lot of slaves died in that war but De Rogelio the nigger, who lost one of his arms, fled with his wife Yefet and their son.  It was said that De Rogelio was the Spanish name for Dennis, the father of Accemen, the impotent black.

Uncle Santos told me coldly how General Franco got rid of the wounded slaves who were not fit for work after the war. Beyond doubt, uncle Santos was prejudice like the rest of the Norcks who were proud of their ethnic background.  Among what Santos told me was that the wounded blacks were left with no treatment, stripped off of their clothes, their hands cuffed behind their    backs, blindfolded, tied to large wooden poles somewhere in valley Guadalajara, and left for the eagles that lived high in the mountains.  Some were thrown from high balconies face down to cemented floors.  And those who survived the fall, were thrown once more and then they were buried in an isolated area or left for the hungry animals.

Accemen was not much of a talkative person, and appropriately enough, people forgot the sound of his voice, and no one could even remember seeing him laughing either.  He was an interesting and mysterious person that most times I was looking for him despite my fear of him.  In my mind, I had a picture of him killing those snooping on him. But weirdly enough, I liked him after what he had said although he startled me when he spotted me snooping, and I pretended that it was not intentional.  With a broken Spanish accent he said Those who could only see what the lights reveal, and hear what the sounds speak, are merely blind and deaf.  I wondered if he meant me with his words or it was his way of hastily bestowing his wisdom upon me.  Although he looked very ugly, he was wise and polite, but he never laughed.  I said to myself, wise people don’t laugh.

I had my chance to have a close look at this nigger on the day he saved me from drowning when my feet slipped on a cliff, which I underestimated how deep it was.  His face was full of grooves, his thick lips were very red, and on his cheeks there were some small hairs that could not be seen but from a close distance.  I was scared of him, although he saved my life, but he did not leave until he made sure I was alright.  He said with his broken Spanish accent do not be afraid of what you do not know, you should be afraid of what you know.  His looks, despite their terrifying depth, carried gentleness that I would never forget.  Since that incident, we became inseparable.

I used to visit him secretly. He lived in a secluded area.  He told me about his family and friends who died, crucified on wooden poles in Guadalajara, falling from city balconies, chocking under the hoofs of horses of soldiers, or by the hands of merchants.  I could hear a painful roar in his chest as he was breathing with difficulty and I saw a drop of tear committing suicide on his cheek.  He told me about his country where he came from.  He only saw it through the stories of his ancestors.  I thought there was some strange discrepancy in his stories, but my sympathy for niggers at that time convinced me not to ask about those discrepancies and simply ignore them.

Accemen De Rogelio had in his wooden miserable cabin a box full of books; some were in Spanish while others were in different languages that I could not recognize.  The cover of one of the books caught my attention; I read the title which was in Spanish “The Deluge.  I smiled while asking him “do you know Spanish?.   He answered without looking at me “no one is born knowledgeable.. I have spent half of my life here.  I felt embarrassed and tried to get out of the situation with another question where do you get these books from? and he said with a smile on his face this time I did not buy them for sure!

I wondered a lot why my mother was angry when she found out I befriended the slaved nigger.  I wondered even more when she told my grandfather so he could punish me on her behalf.  But I discovered that the social seclusion that Accemen was living was imposed on him because of the color of his skin.  I told her he was kind hearted despite his looks, but my grandfather pinched my ear and told me you will not rest until this black slave sodimizes you, and then you would be back to us with shame that would not be undone.  His words were very painful to me, even more painful than the pinch.  I did not exactly know if my grandfather was serious in what he said or just wanted to scare me.  I later found out that it was questionable for the youngsters to befriend the adults, but I secretly kept in touch with Accemen the black.

The evenings of Cuenca were mostly quite, except for that evening when we heard feminine cries coming from the western side. At first, we thought it was a lady being attacked by an evil spirit, especially as we were just talking about the evil spirits that evening. The thought captivated me and I did not want to go out and find the truth.  What made me change my mind and go out was the determination of everyone to find the source of the sound.  I got out with them because I was more afraid to stay alone.  The sound was still audibly coming from somewhere.  We walked alongside River Cuervo.  I was afraid to see this possessed woman, as I imagined that the evil spirit would leave her and possess me as soon as it would see me. Fear is a special and very personal feeling.  The screams intensified as we got closer. I could hardly move my feet when everyone else was pacing. Suddenly, I was gripped with an overwhelming fear and I started running to catch up with the rest because I did not want to be left behind.

We finally reached the source of the sound; I carefully avoided looking at the possessed woman despite my deep curiosity to see what was going on.  When someone shouted “Franklin has drowned”, my fears suddenly evaporated and turned into pity.  Only then I gathered my courage and raised my eyes to the woman who was standing at the edge of the river.  She was filling her hands with water and pouring it over her head in a frightening hysteria while crying “Franklin my love, don’t die …please”, but Franklin did not return her calling. She had her sight fixed on some point on River Cuervo which was calm at the time. I guessed it to be the point where she last saw Franklin.  I felt deep anger towards the river and I hated its fluidity that swallowed people with no mercy. The calmness of the river was very antagonizing.  The river had just swallowed the body of a child, hardly nine years old. He could be one of those who were around me when I first arrived to Cuenca.  I was absorbed in creating scenarios to account for what happened without comprehending what the woman was frantically saying to the gathered men.  I had decided that one of the Stone Age alligators was hungry that evening.

The men, who all had stripped off their clothes on one of the giant rocks, came back after searching the whole river inside out for Franklin’s body.  One of them said while panting “the river might have swept him far away”.  The suffering woman could care less for their analyses as long as her boy was missing in this river, stretching cunningly in front of her. Her hands were beating the water with a passionate hysteria.  I was wondering “what if the river was an ugly beast in a beautiful disguise suit, lurking to devour human flesh?!” This incident made me hate flowing water bodies completely and eternally, and I took a negative position against them.  Like the woman, I had my eyes fixed on a still spot on the river, waiting for someone to show up his head, whether it was Franklin, a hippopotamus, or the river itself!

In an ugly but humanly despair, some men repeated the words “the boy has drowned, it is over”. This was very hard for the wailing woman. And when everybody started going back home, few of us stayed behind to convince the woman to just forget the matter.  I was wondering of the whereabouts of the woman’s husband and why everyone suddenly lost their enthusiasm as if the matter was of no concern to them.  What was going to be the fait of this woman? I snapped out of my thoughts when Crosfino Emilio grabbed my arm announcing the end of the tragedy that had just started “let’s go home”.  Unaware, I released myself and said innocently “but it is not over yet”, but he shouted in my face arrogantly, “this is not a sightseeing tour for you to say that”. That was the first time I discovered the stupidity of my uncle and his arrogance.  I said back in anger “but the lady is still crying”, as it seemed to me that she was not going to leave her place as long as her son did not come out of the river.

That was my first experience with death.  The river with its antagonizing calmness seemed like a hit man putting on his rain coat and carelessly washing off his victim’s blood of his hands.  I wished they had blinded the agonizing woman so she could not see the killer of her son running freely in front of her eyes while no one could avenge her loss.

That day I could not sleep. My mind was replaying the tragic incident continuously. The cries of the woman were floating in the voids of my ears like dust trapped in a maze in outer space, where gravity had no grounds.  I cried, while the others ran to their wine bottles, especially uncle Santos who adored drinking, and eventually died for its cause.  The women did not allow us to sit with the men, so we were forced to either accompany them and hear their boring talks or go play in the yard, which was full of insects, games that quickly mounted to boredom.

My mother and grandmother Mariabella Tancredo were gaily talking when someone, without knocking, widely opened the door and walked in panting, allowing others to enter with an injured man carried on their shoulders.  The young man was Grosvenor Russell, son of aunt Terra Orville, who came to Cuenca to spend his annual vacation.  The panting man said that a poisonous snake bit him.  I decided that it was an ill fated day!

The women were quick with actions. They brought dry pieces of clothe and tied the thigh of Grosvenor, who was sweating heavily. I stayed to watch the procedure of getting the poison out of Grosvenor’s foot. With a sharp razor, a man started making two cuts next to the sting.  Then, the man put a white substance on the wound, and Grosvenor was about to jump, if it was not for the tough men who pinned him down firmly.  It was a matter of minutes, when a yellow blackish substance like burnt sugar came out of the wound boiling and bubbling on his skin.  Grosvenor then went into comma after eating slices of lemon given to him by one of the attending women; they said lemon is effective in combating poison.

Norcks feared the spotted snakes the most, for they were threatening the lives of their kids every time they had to pass through the wilderness to the villages overlooking the Sierra Nevada Mountain range, which was covered with snow year around.  The wilderness was Cuenca’s window to the outside world since it was confined between River Cuervo and the Iberian mountain range.  What astonished me was that I was the only one in panic that day while everybody else was accustomed to the sting incidents.  There was a lady helping in caring for Grosvenor; she was holding one of his arms while she was crutching on her feet in a manner that revealed her underwear in an unrepeated kind of way.  I guessed everybody was busy with Grosvenor, except uncle Santos who slyly took notice of that.

Isabel Niron got married when she was very young and maybe she was beautiful according to Norcks’ standards.  She was one of tens of ladies left behind in Cuenca few months after marriage by their husbands, who had to leave to Artikata or Segovia, or even to Marbella in the south, because of the difficult living circumstances.  Most of the men did not return but after three or four years to find that they became fathers.  Some of them discovered that they were the fathers of illegitimate children.  Adultery had become a spreading phenomenon in Cuenca, only second to drinking locally brewed wine, for winemaking was the specialty of Cuenca’s men while women handled the more important and beneficial jobs.

Norcks did not view adultery, from a religious stand point, as a crime or sin condemned by the church.  They considered it a matter little more than normal. They only had to conceal it, but never had to deny it.  And as you would find someone lying drunk next to the Alter, so was sex to the Norcks; a sin only if discovered. Realizing this social practice made me understand why the men did not care much for what that scum did to the young girl during our journey to Cuenca.  There was a strange and exclusive convention widely spread in Cuenca; every woman was in away available to any man if he was lucky to capture the opportunity in the right time and at the right place.  And any woman who dared to object or call for help would be considered stupid because she would only expose herself.

My recollections of Cuenca were confined in the frame of my discovery of the basic elements of the social fabric of the Norcks who remained there and did not migrate like others, and also, the discovery of my talent for lying, which uncle Santos recognized and blessed.  At that time, I had no interest in literature but I was in the discovery and developing stage. On the personal level, discovery meant an adventure that defied the firm family instructions upheld by the adults.  My love for adventure was not unique, for all the children of Cuenca were famous for their love of adventure and naughtiness.  And I could not forget the effects of the nigger Accemen on shaping my writing talent.

Orville Bodin – the priest and the writer– was trying to break nature rules by making us carbon copies of him, ignoring all the major differences between the two culturally different time periods.  I had no strong religious inclinations, when he was insisting that we go to the church of the Virgin.  And despite the fear the church raised in our young hearts, we the young did not appreciate the loud choir songs.  In those boring still moments, I used to indulge in observing and studying the large wall paintings that stood proudly in the church.  I liked those well painted tableaus of the handsome man with the black beard and long hair, crucified with pride on a golden expensive cross. The painter did not neglect to through in some dramatic details on the kids and women who were crying around him.

I was not devoted to the Sunday mass which my grandfather was trying to force us to attend.  Despite that, my grandfather continued to tell stories of one of our ancestors who used to ride a wolf, tamed specially for him by God, in his short trips between the stony villages. Also, Owamariz Rogelio, Orville’s second wife, told me in a friendly gathering about Orvilles who had long been known for their naïve but daring children compared to other Norck children.  They would remain like that until they reached forty, then they would become priests.  While all of that talk was not scientific, she cited several examples to confirm her stories; my father was one such an example of this old family heritage.

My father did not find his way to the Church until the birth of my sister Zorica who was four years my junior.  Grandmother Owamariz and aunt Coretta told me stories and adventures of my father that I only believed after they had sworn to God and the Holy Spirit.  These same stories were told to me later by some other women.  That made the picture of my religious father break and shatter, and made me believe that there was a new era coming, that I should wait for.  Even Mario Lopez, the foundling who lived under the caring of Grandfather Orville Bodin as a bell ringer for the church, was not very attached to the church and its rituals, although everybody thought he was once the most devoted. It was said that he once was playing with the ropes of the bells and so they rang before their time.  People then discovered that he was drunk and Orville flogged him with a whip made of cow skin and ordered his head to be shaved at the razor point. Since that day, his hair never grew back.  And Mario became the bell ringer at day time and a drunkard, sharp tongued at night until he was forty when white hair started showing on his moustache.  He never married until someone caught him masturbating behind a bench inside the church.  Only then Orville Bodin arranged for his marriage to a widow.  That was an order from God, explained Orville to everybody.  People even told about the story of the sheep which sneaked at noon time to the church, which at some point was neglected, and started chewing on the ropes causing the bells to ring at an odd time.  Some remarked that bell ringing was a low menial job, and that was my opinion as well.

My trip to Cuenca , which coincidentally was at the berry harvest time, was not an important event at the family level and so I forgot all about it as soon as I got back to Artikata except for what my memory kept in store for the future.  The trip was one similar to a trip to the world of the dead.  For Cuenca was not like Artikata, full of cars, motorcycles, glass covered buildings, and asphalted roads.  Cuenca with its rural life was charming and frightening at the same time, but could not take the place of Artikata in my heart.  The coyotes and the giant raccoons could not take the place of my pet cats that I adored and raised in my house despite my father’s objections.  And so I longed for our house in Artikata and to my carefully crafted mahogany bed. However, I was glad to be away for a while from my father, who adopted the hot temper and violence nature of Orville Bodin in addition to the large nose, which became the trademark of Orvilles.

That morning, I was awakened by persisting and impolite flies and the sound of falling kitchen wooden cabinets on Juanita’s foot.  It was not an ordinary morning because it was the last day for us in Cuenca.  I was feeling an overwhelming happiness watching my mother packing our bags for the trip back to Toledo.  And after she bandaged Juanita’s foot, my grandmother made her stop crying.  Juanita was afraid of seeing blood, and she cried when she saw the blood well before she felt the pain. I did not care for all of that, as I was saying goodbye to Santiago Emilio and the rest of my friends who did not stop calling me the aristocratic cat.  I forgot to say goodbye to Orville Bodin when I heard the horns of Amado’s car sounding his festive arrival at the plaza.  We left Cuenca that day and I secretly carried some berry in my pocket.  I later remembered them but after they left a large red stain on my clothes, which my mother mistook for a wound.

The first thing I did when we reached Toledo was to visit Soledad Fidel.  I kissed her in gratitude for her true love that showed with the valuable banknote.  She was happy to see me. Soledad hated Orvilles without a clear reason other than her anger towards Orville Bodin, who married another woman in a clear defiance of the church that he belonged to as a priest.  She prayed to God so I would not become a carbon copy of him.  That was why she repeated her famous words “if you want God to be satisfied, do not become an Orville”.  There was one question in my mind but did not dare to ask anyone about it; how did Orville Bodin strike a balance between his love to God and his love to women?

 أشكر الأديب عواض على نصه المتميز

The Crow

Written by: Awaadh Shaher

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

The fragile virginity of the place trembled before me. The sky had frail blue ends, and the sun was awesomely naked. A wooden pole, with a lone crow announcing its presence on top, was determined to stay but with an undecided mission in the middle of the desert, after they had removed the electrical wire holders and fixed them on an enormous steel tower, newly erected on a road that traveled far.  It had resolved to stand tall with its dark color and cylindrical body, as it had been doing for ages, diligently carrying the wires.  So, why couldn’t it simply stay a bit more for a lone crow that possessed nothing but its raucous sound    

I shifted my sight deliberately from one pole to another in the heart of the desert, while the crow echoed its caws solemnly.  I took a deep breath, for I was not annoyed of its presence around me.  Quite the contrary, a feeling of joy made me listen to the beat of life in its cries, echoing naturally in the place. Its petit body gave the pole a jet black pointed head.  Every time it raised its head to bestow an everlasting greeting upon the place, ancient shadows of a nomadic nation that dwelled once upon a time in the wedges of the sands, hunting fresh lightning as an offering for the commanding door, moved on things. Ages with unbroken flashes of lightning passed by the sky, and yet other ages marched on while the barefooted nomads waited daily for the clouds.  Generations died and left their spines for the grinding teeth of stones and the remains of the ancestors, who showed up in dreams with their exposed skulls pouring ashes

Black and clammy winds carried the news.  The Door had abandoned the lightning flashes and the desert, and instead started building houses in so many cities that only welcomed whomever it invited.  It shaved its matted beard and fixed its moustache.  It donned its very precious turban and married many women of different breeds and lands.  It learned the languages of nations and sent its children, in a crusade for knowledge, to the lands of Christians

They all came back home, eyes looking down.  Their heads were consumed with thoughts they could not describe, let alone get rid of. They felt defeated, and inside their ragged houses they stayed awhile nurturing their skeletons and weeping all along. They felt deceived by the sand; the very one they devoted their lives for its cause over the ages.  Its overwhelmingly silky touch on hands puzzled them, and its discontent with their old habit of digging water out of its guts discomforted them. The sand had become domesticated, but only like quern stones in times of hunger. And while the Door had forged a deal with a foreign wind to carry him along with the smell of homes and the seeds of their fertile plants, the desert contracted the fever of infectious water, where hallucination was the sole gate to madness and death on long roads

The crow’s caw came out softly like smoke from ruins. Then, with its freshly sharpened voice, it began mercilessly slashing the innocence of whatever stood in its way, causing the faces to revert back to their origin, to the first set of eyes that feasted on them the very first time.  And when the place lost its identity and things looked quite the opposite of what they were, the soft lines on the sand’s facade quivered.  The sand deserted its serenity, giving rise to dust and burnt papers that flew around with a native wind that was murmuring unexpectedly in the place

Terrified, I was looking at the charred relics of ancient creatures surfacing out of the folds of the volatile sand that was flying with the wind. I was wondering why it didn’t rain instead of this branched lightning that burned everything. Only the wooden poles survived the flashes. Yet, there they were, standing in the desert helplessly and vainly, just like me; exactly like me, except for the crow which at that particular moment landed on my head and indulged in cawing

From the book “Not a Trace” by the same author, 2007

الغراب

 قصة الأديب عواض شاهر

المكان، ترتجف بيني وبينه عذرية هشة. سماؤه مفككة الزرقة من الأطراف، وشمسه فاضحة الضوء. ..العمود الخشبي الذي وقف على رأسه الغراب، كان سيقف على أي حال بلا مهمة محددة، في قلب الصحراء، بعد إذ نزعوا من رأسه حوامل الكيبل الكهربائي وثبتوها في برج حديدي ضخم يمر بمسار بعيد. كان سيقف العمود بلونه الداكن وشكله الأسطواني كما وقف لعقود طويلة ممسكاً بالتيار، بلا كلل. إذاً، ما الذي يمنعه أن يقف هذه المرة لغراب وحيد ليس معه سوى النعيق؟في تتابع مقصود، نقلت بصري من عمود إلى آخر في عمق الصحراء، فيما كان الغراب يردد صوته في خشوع الطيور.

عادوا منكسرين إلى بيوتهم في عمق الرمل، تحصد رؤوسهم أفكار لا يعرفون كيف يصفونها ولا كيف يتخلصون منها. شعروا بالهزيمة والخسران. وبداخل بيوتهم المهلهلة، مكثوا زمناً يتفقدون هياكلهم العظمية وينشجون. شعروا أنهم خُدِعوا من قبل الرمل الذي نذروا له حياتهم عبر الدهور. حيرتهم نعومته المفرطة في الأيدي، وأقلق راحتهم تكبره على عادتهم القديمة في استخراج الماء من أحشائه. صار مستأنساً ولكن كحجر الرحى في أزمنة الجوع. وكما تواطأ الباب مع الرياح الغريبة فحملته إلى هناك مصطحباً معه رحيق الديار وبذور نباتها الخصيب، اتخذت الصحارى رطانة حمى المياه الوبيئة حيث الهذيان هو الجهة الوحيدة التي تقود إلى الجنون والتهريب والموت في الطرقات الطويلة.

كان صوت الغراب يخرج منه بنعومة خروج الدخان من الأنقاض. ثم بشفرته الحادة يسلخ براءة كل ما يصل إليه بلا شفقة. يرد المعالم إلى أصلها الأول. إلى العيون الأولى التي تفرست فيها أول مرة. ولما لم يعد ثمة ما ينتمي إليه المكان، لما تبدت الأشياء على النقيض تماما، ارتعشت ثنيات سطح التراب الناعمة وانتقضت سكينته مع ذاته فانبعث منه غبار، وطارت منه وريقات محترقة في رياح محلية تنحنحت في المكان فجأة

كنت أحدق بذعر شديد في آثار متفحمة لمخلوقات قديمة تتكشف تباعاً تحت طيات التراب المتطايرة مع الرياح. وكنت أتساءل: لماذا لم ينزل المطر بدلاً من البرق الذي أحرق كل شيء؟ الأعمدة وحدها نجت من الصواعق. ورغم ذلك، هاهي في الصحراء تقف فرادى بلا جدوى. مثلي أنا. بالضبط مثلي أنا، باستثناء أن الغراب حط هذه اللحظة على رأسي، واستغرق في النعيق.

من مجموعة ” ما من أثر ” الصادرة عن دار طوى/مركز الانتشار العربي 2007

 النص الأصلي منقول من موقع القصة العربية

http://www.arabicstory.net/index.php?p=text&tid=2442

أرجو أن تنال الترجمة القرب من النص الأصلي البديع ، وقلب القارئ.
ولن يفوتني شكر الأديب فيصل على متعة العيش داخل النص.

The Museum Girl

Written By:  Faisal Abu Saad
Translated By:  Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Heading towards the Grand Museum, Salwa was crossing the street, holding on to a brilliant hope for a job as a tour guide.  She had just earned a degree in Foreign Languages from the National University, but the words of all the languages she had learned seemed to vanish, like bubbles touching the land of reality

There, just few meters away from the museum, a tall handsome tourist appeared in her sight, a dream that had lost its way home.  He was beaming like a sun, and she too was beautiful like a fairytale; it seemed that, together, they portrayed what looked like the masterpiece of a legendary painter

He asked her, in broken Arabic that sounded like the first words of a joyful child, to show him the way to the Museum.  Captivated by his spell, and swept off her feet by his charm, she told him she was going in the same direction.  She thanked her degree that had come in handy as she hastened to add that he needed not to struggle with words, she could fluently speak his native language!

And they walked together

Jonathan, who made heads turn in awe, in every country he toured, with his natural elegance, streaming blonde hair like ribbons of gold, and superior culture, had stunned her, and she wrote in her diary that day

I think God is still on my side

She carried the same first name with two of her cousins, and shared with them the same family name, and a similar fate.  She would later be known as Salwa of the Museum, just to tell her apart from her cousins, for, simply, it would not be appropriate to call her limping Salwa.  She distanced herself from those around her when she realized that there were people living freely as they pleased in this strange world.  Despite her astonishingly beautiful eyes and classic features, so many others wished for, all they could see was her slight limp
 
Jonathan was the only one who looked into her eyes, and did not seem to notice or wonder much about her short leg.  He did not care if it was polio or an old accident; he showed no sympathy, and certainly no displeasure.  He just walked with her like two old friends, reliving shared memories, and minding their sprouting moment

That day, it was only reasonable for her to write atop a fresh page in her diary: is my dream finally coming alive

In college, Salwa was an accomplished student, and languages came easy to her.  She answered those critical about her passion for languages, that a new language gives a person a new life.   She was very talkative, but her eyes were always fixed on a point somewhere, visible to no one but her, looking beyond the seen, and dreaming

After years in college and meeting different people, it was not likely for her to marry her Libyan cousin, the knight on a chronically disabled white horse.  Nor could she settle for her military cousin, although she liked him, for the smell of his uniform reminded her of the associated backwardness.  And definitely, she could not revive old friendships with her male colleagues from school time; after all, she used to look down her nose at them

This time, she weaved her nostalgic words onto the fragile fabric of her heart:  Jonathan my love, where are you

With him, she had the time of her life.  They walked together, trying to discover whether their forefathers were distantly related.  He too was good with words, simply because he was free as a dream, and no problems could keep him on a tight rein.   He talked with the sweetness of running through open and wide prairies, feeling her eyes on him the entire time.   He told her he liked her, as he was preparing to leave.  She was aware of the subtle difference between like and love, but still, his words felt just as good as love in her dictionary of dreams.  She asked him to return back for her, and he said while kissing her, in the street, I will.  Yet, somehow, she felt certain it was goodbye

She was hired as an assistant museum curator, a job she hated right from the start.  She kept to herself and away from people, savoring her first kiss, going through that moment in her daydreams, and rehearsing the promising scenarios of his return to her.  Her body was screaming for him, but her moves were becoming as monotonous as the dull statues that resided in the museum, with their stony eyes staring at the tourists with chilling emptiness

Day by day, her colorful flowery dresses withered and gray prevailed to suit the coldness of the place.  She invented a game as a pastime, although the game itself was boring.  She would simply stand next to a statue and strike a conversation with it, or just mimic its posture, attempting to enact its feelings as well.  She tried that for a few minutes in the beginning, but soon she started to get real good at it, and sometimes she forgot herself in the game for longer periods.  Reaching the mastery level, she was able to stand for hours just like a statue, while the tourists passed her by.  One day, she was very astounded when a tourist turned around, suddenly, and flashed his camera in her face.  That day, Salwa became very sad and scared.   Alone in her bed at night, she cried her heart out on her diary, and wrote with it

Jonathan, my dream, please comeback.  I am slowly turning to stone

Ras Tanura

May 2008

سلوى المتحف

قصة قصيرة للأديب السوري فيصل أبو سعد

ثم أن سلوى قطعت الشارع باتجاه إدارة المتاحف كي تتقدم إلى وظيفة مرشدة سياحية , فقد تخرجت منذ مدة في قسم اللغات في الجامعة الوطنية , لكن اللغات التي أتقنتها كلها بدأت تتلاشى كفقاعات الصابون فور ارتطامها بالواقع .
وهناك بالضبط قبل المتحف الكبير استوقفها سائح طويل ٌ وساطع ٌ كالشمس ولأنها كانت جميلة ً كحكاية قديمة فقد تكاملت صورتهما كلوحات المستشرقين .
طلب إليها بعربية ٍ طفولية ٍ أن ترشده إلى المتحف فأخبرته أنها على الطريق ذاته وأن عليه ألا يعصر الكلمات ليعبر عما يريد فهي تتحدث لغته بطلاقة .
وسارا معا …..

جوناثان الذي زرع في كل بلد حسرة وغيرة بسحنته البيضاء وشعره الأشقر و تفوقه الحضاري وسلوى التي كتبت في دفترها ذلك اليوم :
- أعتقد أن الله لم يتخل عني بعد .

سلوى التي سوف تدعى فيما بعد بسلوى المتحف كي يميزها الناس عن بنتي عمها السلوتين الأخريين فقد كان لهن جميعا اسم الأب نفسه والمصير نفسه , ولم يكن من اللائق طبعا أن يسموها سلوى العرجاء .
سلوى التي نفرت من محيطها كطلقة حين بدأت تتعلم أن هنالك أناساً يعيشون بحرية وكما يحلو لهم في هذا العالم الغريب , فعلى الرغم من الجمال الآسر في عينيها وعلى الرغم من تفاصيلها التي تشع ألقا ً لم يكن أحد ٌ يلتفت إلا إلى عاهتها الدائمة .

جوناثان هو الوحيد الذي نظر إلى عينيها وهو الوحيد الذي لم يسألها عن رجلها القصيرة , ولم يستفسر كالجميع إن كان ذلك شيء من الطفولة أو بسبب حادث ولم يبدِ تعاطفه ولا استنكاره , فقط سار معها كأنه يعرفها منذ زمن طويل .
لذلك فقد كان من البدهي يومها أن تكتب في أعلى الصفحة : أتراه الحلم وقد استجاب أخيرا …؟؟!!
في الجامعة كانت سلوى بارعة ًجدا , تتماها مع أية لغة تدرسها , وترد باقتضاب على منتقديها بأن اللسان الجديد يعني إنسانا ً جديدا ً . كان لسانها يثرثر كثيرا أما عيناها فكانتا معلقتين دائما في نقطة في الفراغ , ترنوان إلى البعيد وتحلمان ….

بعد كل الشخصيات التي تنقلت بينها لم يكن من الممكن أن تعود أدراجها لترتبط بابن عمها القادم على صهوة عاهة مزمنة من ليبيا , ولا أن تقبل بابن خالتها رغم حبها له فقد كانت رائحة بذلته العسكرية تذكرها بالتخلف دائما , وكان من المستحيل طبعا ً أن تبادر لإعادة الصلة مع زملائها في الجامعة وهي التي كانت تنظر إليهم من فوق , من أرنبة أنفها .
هذه المرة كتبت ولكن بحبر الحنين فوق صفحة روحها:جوناثان يا حبيبي أين أنت؟

قضت سلوى برفقته أجمل لحظات عمرها , فقد تجولا معا محاولين أن يكتشفا قرابة ً مزعومة ً بين أجدادهما . كان محدثا ً بارعاً جداً , ببساطة لأنه حر ٌ , لا عقد لديه ولا مشاكل تضغط على عنقه كاللجام , حديثه عذب كالركض في السهول الواسعة , خاصة ً و أن عيني سلوى كانتا مثبتتين عليه طيلة الوقت . قال لها قبل أن يغادر أنا أودك وعلى الرغم من أن هذه العبارة تختلف عن عبارة أنا أحبك وعلى الرغم من أن سلوى كانت تعلم ذلك جيدا , لكنها اعتبرت هذا حبا ً لطالما حلمت به . ومما زاد في يقينها أنها لحظة الوداع قالت له عد إلي وقال لها بعد أن قبلها في الشارع : سوف أعود ….

كانت قد قبلت في المديرية ولكن كأمينة في المتحف الكبير, وهو الأمر الذي كرهته منذ اليوم الأول , لذلك فقد اعتزلت الناس , و أخذت تطارد ذكرى قبلتها الأولى , تستعيد تفاصيلها كل يوم وتزيد عليها ما يساعد على فكرة تعلق جوناثان بها وعودته المؤكدة . كان جسدها يضج به طيلة الوقت , لكن حركاتها بدأت تستمد رتابتها من سكون التماثيل وعيونها المجوفة التي ترنو إلى الزائرين بحيادية قاتلة . وشيئا فشيئا أخذت الزهور تختفي من ثيابها وتطغى عليها ألوان رمادية تناسب برودة المكان . ثم اخترعت لعبة ً تساعدها على الوصول إلى لحظة الانصراف دون ملل و إن كانت اللعبة نفسها مملة ً وقاحلة , كانت ببساطة تقف قبالة تمثال معين في كل مرة وتحاول أن تحدثه أو تجاريه في وقفته متقمصة ً أحاسيس الحجر وثباته , جربتها لبضع دقائق في البداية , ثم صارت تنسى نفسها لوقت أطول , و أخيرا ً صار بإمكانها أن تقف لساعات كالتمثال رغم وجود بعض الزائرين , و كم كانت دهشتها عظيمة عندما كانت إحدى السائحات تلتقط صورا ً للمعالم المتحجرة . لحظة َ التفتت إلى سلوى وضبطت فتحة العدسة و أطلقت ضوءا ً كاشفا ً .
يومها خافت سلوى كثيرا وبكت كثيرا وكتبت في دفترها :
جوناثان أرجوك ….إنني أتفسخ .

النص العربي منقول من موقع منتدى القصة العربية

http://www.arabicstory.net/forum/index.php?showtopic=10612

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

From Artikata to Cuenca

- Chicken Pox and Pale Complexions -

We were about to leave when my grandmother, Soledad Fidel, kissed me while secretly putting a wretched banknote in my hand. Although I did not know its value at the time, and despite the fact that I did not expect her to do so, I was angry because she found nothing but that miserable paper to show her love to me. Yet, I allowed her to kiss me with her moist lips without reciprocating just to let her know how offended I was for the insult she dropped on me. I still could remember how she cried that day for a reason I did not know, for I could not believe that she loved me enough to cry while bidding me farewell. But I discovered the contrary when we arrived to Cuenca after a long and tiring journey during which I contracted Smallpox. And maybe my mother suffered the most in the journey, as she had to care for a sick child, and my moody and turbulent sister, Juanita Serginio, who was two years my senior. My father, who stayed behind in Artikata where he worked in a diamond mine, had already stressed to my mother in one of their quick phone calls, which lacked exchanged sentimental words, to take us to our hometown to get to know our relatives there. This act of his, which aimed at strengthening family ties, carried an important meaning for him but stained with male ego he always wanted to feel since he married my mother in 1971. I felt overwhelmingly happy when I heard the train whistle announcing its departure to Toledo, and I started waving goodbye to those standing alongside the station even though I did not know anyone of them. 

During the short and sporadic times when I awakened through my weariness, I saw nothing through the train’s window but arid and rocky land, fitting perfectly with the fever that was battling with me throughout the journey, a matter that suggested to me that I might die of thirst. What bothered me even more than the fever was the sound of the couplers of the train cars that seemed to be about to separate from each other any minute, and the sound of the cast iron wheels that resembled heartbeats of a giant genie. These sounds aroused laziness and were very depressing especially with the melancholic atmosphere that engulfed the cabinet. The only thing that got stuck strongly in my mind from that journey was the smell of seat leather, which largely resembled the smell of cat fur. In that period, I was the center of attention for the female golden agers, a thing that made me disgusted with the smell of oldsters and the sight of their wrinkled skin in addition to their eating habits that made me sick to my stomach. Despite that, they were the most caring of all people. On the other hand, there was an old family grudge caused by the independent behavior of my father, which my grandfather considered as ingratitude, when my father refused to name me after him, and instead sent him a one-line telegram that said “congratulations on the newborn, Casper Serginio”. This was back in 1974. 

None of his sons or daughters fulfilled his dream of having a grandson bearing his name, which only existed in old French. That was a reason behind softening the anger of my grandfather after five years of my birth. However, flying shrapnel of that anger somehow reached his brothers and sisters who witnessed his last heart attack that hit him when he read the provocative telegram. But the truth was they were discontent with my father’s success in fleeing the hell of domineering Orville Bodin, to work in the most famous diamond mind at that time, leaving them for the iron fist of a hardheaded father, and a hard social consuetude that did not stimulate ambition. And maybe refusing to name me Orville was one of my father’s rare deeds that I could remember, for it would sound like a name of a declassed clown “Orville Serginio Orville.

We were sharing our cabin with a mouthy and snoopy woman, wearing a black dress spotted with white small circles, eyeglasses, and black gloves that matched her dress. I found out later that she was the wife of one of my father’s friends. That woman, Charlotte Corbin, was endlessly advising my mother of the best traditional methods of treating me since she had a long experience in dealing with this illness that had hit her two brothers and son lately. And I wondered how she had survived it! The worst experience I had gone through in this journey was when my mother left me for the caring of this woman and went to the bathroom.

It was the first time for me to find out that my family, descendents of Norck tribes, favored traditional medicine and believed in it more than they trusted technology and developed medicine. They viewed medicine and science in general as less respectable, and therefore the nearest clinic was at a one-day walking distance from Cuenca. Through the train window, I enjoyed watching the peddlers in the stations during train stops, each of which lasted not more than a quarter of an hour. The sight of the stations was very miserable and attracted drowsiness, and if it were not for the passing of some generic faces, they would seem deserted. On top of that, the stations had no signboards or nameplates. I paid mind to this through the questions of Mrs. Corbin who was drooping from the window to ask a passerby “which station is this?” And I could still remember that skinny girl who was selling red drinks packed in transparent bags and arranged in a classic old bucket. When I asked my mother to buy me some of the red drink, that woman volunteered her advice to her for the contrary, arguing that cold drinks might aggravate my health condition. Although my mother was convinced of her advice, I had achieved an advanced degree of hatred for that woman, that I was not about to accept her advice, or submit to her and her snoopiness, and I even considered the matter of buying the chilled drink a private family matter. I had to resort to crying, using my illness for support, and normally such trick works, since ill people receive special treatment and they are usually pampered more than healthy people. But I did not enjoy the taste of the drink because of the bitterness in my throat, but it did not matter since I was drinking my triumph in glee anyway.

I did not know why it seemed to me that Mrs. Corbin was exchanging with me antipathetic looks through her glasses. This undeclared war between us continued until the train reached Katyusha in the afternoon of a very warm day when tens of men and women gathered for the reception. That was the last of the days of motherly warmth. I felt illogically estranged and sad while watching the melodramatic scenes of families forced to separation and displacement by war .

The sad words, which my mother and the women were reciprocating, had profound effects on me although I had not mastered the local dialect professionally, and sometimes I used the sign language and head nods to the extent that many people had confused me for a mute. I liked the way people switched between crying and laughing, and then to guffawing, but later I found that one could easily train for that. I was less than eight years old, and traditional richness was showing on my mother who would not dare to take off her golden bangles that weighed down on her wrist like guards of a Buddha temple, as if that was the only proof that she had come from Artikata, the city of diamond. I could not come up with a reason why she had to prove that, but through additional mingling with the Norck tribes, I knew they cared for such details to a great extent. 

Pale yellow was the prevailing color in everything I had seen and remembered of that town, the houses of which were scattered around leaving large spaces for people to use for various occasions. At that time, I had almost recovered and I was able to walk unsupported. “Oh my God.. he is the son of Serginio”; these were the words that everybody uttered as they set their eyes on me. Only then, I uncovered the male conspiracy that my father weaved as he insisted that my mother should take us to Artikata. I never wanted others to treat me as the son of Serginio, but our people, naïve as they were, exulted in doing so. I had endured tens of kisses from men and women unknown to me with a strange bounteousness. And although everyone had introduced themselves to me, I did not care much at the time. I was only reading joy in their faces, and the simplicity of their life was a reason for me to castaway my embarrassment, and to directly ask where the bathroom was, contrary to my habit of only confiding in my mother my need to answer nature’s call. My memories of Katyusha were not exactly perfect, maybe because I only stayed there for two days, during which we were waiting for a transportation vehicle to take us to Cuenca, the ultimate reach of our journey.

The journey was much like the illegal immigration crossings that some people were secretly organizing across the western border using various transportation means. In one of their evening gatherings under the moonlight, a woman, who still maintained the looks of aristocrats bestowed upon her by an aged estrangement that only ended a few years back, came through holding a bag full of traditional souvenirs. She gave the bag to my mother who took it gracefully and promised to deliver it to its intended person in Cuenca.

Those evening gatherers talked about issues, which were not that important to me; issues mostly about those who died while my mother was away from Katyusha when she left with her husband to Artikata, those who migrated to distant lands, and about the newly celebrated marriages with their subsequent offspring. Meanwhile, I was busy watching a big monitor lizard that was diligently digging a hole in a sandy area nearby. I thought it was an alligator at the beginning, but someone patted me on the shoulder and said, “it’s the first time for you to see such an animal… right?”, and gave me a smile that made me fear him. Next day, Georginio Amado had arrived early morning in his vehicle, the most famous in the area, sounding its musical horn, which I still remembered to this day. The villagers knew every driver by the sound of their horns. Moreover, the children used to indulge in contests to mimic those musical sounds vocally. And as an aristocratic lady, my mother lead her way to the front seat next to the driver where only elites were allowed, while everybody else started laying down their mats on the back of the truck. Mrs. Corbin was among them, and I had a reason to gloat. Although she was kind to ask my mother to have my sister Juanita stay with her, at an advanced stage in my life, I found out that what Mrs. Corbin did was a professional technique; grownups can punish children by ignoring them and diverting their attention to other ones. It was a matter of minutes before the plaza was full of farewell bidders, and the back of the truck was full of male and female passengers grouping together like African emigrants. This scenic festival was repeated every Wednesday with the same details that emphasized the importance of the receiving and farewell bidding rituals among the residents of Katyusha.

Men’s hats and women’s handkerchiefs, were slipping away from sight along with the houses, and sinking in a red twilight river, while we were heading north to Cuenca through Guadalajara, the rocky valley that our ancestors used to pass through with their cattle to the fertile ground of the Savanna. This valley turned to a streaming river during rainy seasons, which sometimes lasted more than three months. I had no curious desire to observe the road or know the landmarks.  I also missed the sight of Ojos Del Sol, the mountain known to have the sun slide through a wide orifice at its peak, but later I read about it in some travel books.

I used to wonder about my mother’s strange ability to sleep all through the annoying vehicle movement caused by the bumpy road. It felt as if we were on a howdah, a top of an Arabian camel, and what helped intensify the feeling was a red piece of clothe ending with embroidered velvety strands, Amado used as a decorating ornament dangling from the ceiling of his car. Suddenly, my mother awoke in panic and made the sign of the cross with her hand in a mechanical worshipping way when Amado suddenly cried “Lourdes…Lourdes”. I wondered about the sudden devoutness that engulfed them while they were looking at something outside. I looked out of the window to see while smiling at the contagious curiosity I contracted from Mrs. Corbin. I only saw a pyramid shaped building with a cross at the top. It looked like a monastery, the designer of which probably did not select the right location. I looked at my mother, she was still in her catholic religious fervor, and I asked her “what is this place?”, but she signaled to me to keep quite. However, Amado smiled at me, pulled me from the arm, and sat me next to him.

Son, I’ll tell you the story … it had been said that a teenaged catholic girl called Bernadette Spyros came to Grotto of Massabielle, which you can see in front of you over there, withdrawing from life and people, and asked the Virgin Mary to appear for her if she could do that

And did the Virgin Mary really appear to her?

I guess so!

Although I liked tales that involved ancestors and long gone people, this particular one was very depressing and lacked interesting details, and so I resorted to my childish imagination to add more dramatic and interesting twists to Amado’s abridged story.

Despite the privacy of sitting in the front seat and its bourgeois significance, I did not feel comfortable, for I could not stretch or make the slightest move without getting one of my mother’s hard line looks. She was very keen for us to look very polite in front of others, especially grownups and I used to work hard to meet her expectations, but all she could notice was the rare slips.

Amado stopped the car, turned down the engine, and announced a half hour rest. We all got out of the car, and some started stretching and unfolding their bodies, while others were on their knees peeing nearby. It was very cold and men were breathing out white vapor clouds like mystic dragons, while women wrapped their faces with cotton shawls. I liked the sight of white clouds and it gave me a perverted idea; I exhaled through my first and second fingers pretending to look like a professional smoker. What I liked most about this was that I was not afraid of my mother. Juanita was begging mother to take her to the front seat compelled not by a bourgeois flair, but seemingly, she got bored of the company of Mrs. Corbin. I enjoyed my mother’s firm position, although I felt pity for Juanita. Some of the passengers gathered in circles and started talking and laughing, disturbing the calmness of this desolated place. Amado was sipping on his evening coffee from a pot that he neatly hid away. I used to wonder about adults’ addiction to coffee and tea, things that I never developed a taste for. It seemed as if they were meant for grownups, and having a cup of tea was a sign of being an adult. For us children, our mothers cooled the tea in a very laborious way, and sometimes they added cold water to it. Anyway, I never drank tea in my life, saving this adventure to later.    

 Out of somewhere, we heard the voice of a young girl shouting, cursing, and name-calling someone. We later found out that he was hitting on her while she was peeing. Quietness then prevailed, while some were gossiping and making fun of the event. I pitied the girl as her mother smacked her on the face and grounded her for the rest of the journey. I could not understand why the mother punished the girl, since she was the victim, and why no one condemned the incident, and instead everyone just raised their eyebrows in displeasure that vanished in few minutes. This incident caused all other mothers to do the same with their daughters. I felt that they were like helpless flocks of sheep, that had no way but to befriend wolves, which played double roles; protecting them and devouring them at the same time.