Mother to Son

Couple of verses from a poem that capture how a mother would plead to her son for being forgotten although she brought him to life. Also presented is the tie between mother and son, that even "in death", a mother feels for her son and mourns him - asking why no one seems to sympathize with her.

الزمن انت زمانه والمكان انت مكانه
يا علي يابني انا أمك
قلبي ما بطّل حنانه
تعرف الأم وقلبها، تدري قلبي شلّي عانى؟
يا علي رنّت بروحي أجراسك
قلبي واحساسي مع احساسك
الكعبة انشقت لأول أنفاسك
جم ألف كعبة انشقت براسك

الله واشلون إتوَدّع
والوجود انت كيانه
يا علي يابني وداعك
زلزل أركان الديانة

جيتك الليلة يا جبل يابني
وكأني من فوقك الزمن ذبني
جم وأنا بقبري عليك أمل أبني
دولبت دهرك ودهري دولبني

أنا الي ماحد عرف وجدي
وشلّي شلته بجبدي
وجان الدنيا مفجوعة
ترا كل الوجع عندي

لولا إني متّ قبلك
ولولا إنك رحت بعدي
تواريخ الحزن كلها
ما شافت في الحزن قدّي

أنا المنسية .. علّي الي فيًّ
أنا الي عافوني
ما جنك مني، ولا جنك ابني ونور عيوني
على أحوالك
يمر مصابك.. ولا يذكروني
ما جني جذورك ودماي بحورك
ودمك غصوني

أنا يا علي أمك
جيت أمسح لك دمك
وقبل ما تظمك الغبرا
لفيتك بحضني أظمّك

القبر الي جمع جسمي
شهق .. كل منيّته يلمّك
ولو ان الموت يفرقنا
تظل يمي وأنا يمّك

رد لي مسامعي تسمعك
خيالي يا غالي باودعك
يابني عليك الدمع مسفوح
قبل المصيبة كنت انا أنوح
يوم الي تخيّلتك مطبّر
للوالدة ما سكنت الروح

من يوم الذي راح
وانا قلبي نوّاح
تتوزع على موتي حياتي

يوم الي حان حينك
جمع دهري بينك..
جنها توّها ميتة أمنياتي

نهاية يابوالحسن انت لي
ذهلتني مصيبتك يا علي

للي استيعابه مو ذاك الزود، الكلام بلسان حال السيدة فاطمة بنت أسد عليها السلام

ثاني يوم دوام

"Yala, rawna sha6artek", told Theraar Marzoug. Theraar looked over his shoulder to meet a pair of gloves extended in Marzoug's hands. Taking them, he looked back straight ahead to the car. But he was distracted by the two police cars in the corner of his right eye, silently the flashes turned, round and round they went, blinding him with the red and blue laser. He directed his gaze to the parked BMW 6 series coupe. He saw the what looked to be a man's head tilted to the side, resting on the window. He wondered if the sight itself was surreal, or if it was the silent yet filled with flashing lights ambiance that got to him.

He slapped the two gloves on his hand as he walked slowly towards the BMW, covering his forehead and looking towards the police cars. He motioned with his fingers, turning his wrist round a few times, to the four police officers looking over from a distance. Two of them hurried back to their cars, and in a second all the red and blue was gone. Both patrols now had their high beams directed towards Theraar.

He tightened his lips and licked them anxiously as he walked round the BMW, looking down at the street and checking under the body from time to time. His eyes met the open eyes of the young male driver as he was making his turn across the hood. He came to the door handle to the driver's side, and pulled it gently open. The young male's body slided with the gapping of the door, falling into Theraar's extended arm. He mumbled a few words, and gently pushed the body back into the seat and immediately reached for the young man's wrist.
He continued to mumble a few words as he saw the infamous needle stuck in the young man's arm. He looked up to the grey eyes of his peer. Reaching his hand in his left pocket, he gently positioned the arm on the thigh of the seated body as he extracted a pair of plastic cases. He stood up, and nodded towards Marzoug as he was opening the cases and fllling them with his hand. Marzoug was just closing the Ambulance's rear door and was now making his way towards his new to the job friend.

"Ma sheft shay ba3dik 7aboob", said Marzoug casually, patting Theraar's back at his arrival. Theraar silently reached for his peer's forehead and drew his hand downwards slowly closing the dead man's open eyes.

(Not) In So Many Words

"And so it seems, once proven and forever, that promises do indeed last forever - not in the heads of those who promised but in the hearts to whom promises were made. Indeed, the more I loved you, the more you didn't care.
Why? That which I have given, I gave not out of kindness nor for my love to you, but for my belief that to you I belong and with me all that I give is yours by default. You have shown me that the faster I see myself falling down, the further the ground escapes, refusing to accept the chance of being accused that it was she, the ground, that killed me. So I fall. But I don't stop falling. Until then, I am yours. Sometimes, it all makes sense. Sometimes, when I think about it, not so much. I tell myself I am accepting of what you have done, but that would make us both just as guilty. Guilty because we have both violated the same thing. Me, rising to the stooping down of our level. All those words you said, it wasn't about the words. I believed them for your voice. All the places you touched me, it wasn't about the touches. I felt them for it were your hands around me. Everytime I remember, or everytime I try, fail, for I insist on forgetting the words and the touches and only long for your voice and your hands. What is it that is so right about you that makes me more wrong. Why am I addicted. I am not dependent. I know it. I am addicted. You know it. But why, you cannot tell for you do not know. Or so it seems. Because I think you, too, are addicted. You are addicted to your voice and to your hands, because, quite obviously, you seem to choose not to settle for anything else, regardless of how similar, to replace them. Tell me why. No, explain to me how. How did you become so vain. The more I break, the stronger you gather - only to break me some more. Stronger. Still falling for the ground escapes further since now I am falling even faster. And behind that door, I last. With you pressed against me although I am not there. Taking what is yours and me loving the hating for the loving of my hating for my accepatnce to give. No, to return. What is yours. Me. Still I want to apologize. For whatever I am returning of me. Broken," she wrote to me.

راح أموت صغير

"It's time to do all we can to destroy as much as we can of the infrastructure in the next 12 or 13 hours, and then we'll see what is next," former prime minister Ehud Barak told CNN.

Mashallah, see everyone? I always knew Barak was an angel sent from the heavens above. 3ayazt wana akteb bel Wa6an bel saf7a il akheera / 3ayazt wana ansherr fi saf7at il magalaat bel Qabas to promote this fact.
How could he not be? He's an ex-PM of the zionist regime. Kelllllll wa7id fehom asna3 mn el thaany ba3ad 3omri. They are just defending their "country".

Anyway, before I tell everyone to f... orget it.

Here is the text of the UNSCR 1701. Knock yourselves out.

I'm a linguist, so that makes me two things. One: boring. Two: picky on any written text, and any heard conversation.

E.g.
"[the violence] caused hundreds of deaths and injuries on both sides, extensive damage to civilian infrastructure and hundreds of thousands of internally displaced persons"

internally displaced? Wel ~1,000,000 Lebanese externally-displaced?

"Hello? What's that now? Oh. No, sorry. I don't think so. No, I don't think any of them were Jews. Yes, yes. Indeed. Yes sir, Mr President. I will go fuck myself. What's that? Oh okay, sure. We'll ALL go fuck ourselves. Come again? Not all of us? Yes, sure, with the exception of the Arab leaders. My bad, yes, so-called leaders. Inshala mawlaana, a7sant yejzaak bel jannah wild 3amy."

Exhibit A:

"encouraging the efforts aimed at urgently settling the issue of the Lebanese prisoners detained in Israel"

Exhibit B:

"emphasizing the need to address urgently the causes that have given rise to the current crisis, including by the unconditional release of the abducted Israeli soldiers"

Did you get it, or should I get the President on the phone 3alashan yetarjem lekom what that means again?

Ba3dain ta3al ya mama, haak ragmy ent bas deg 3alay o ana eb nafsi will "address the causes that have given rise to the current crisis".
Look in your blood(y) archives, Mr Secretary General. Pussy

And also, just because I'm a Care Bear - or Carebear, or care-bear .. hmm, I'm an Arab - so if I wanted to follow the example of my "leaders" I would have to obssess with this stuff. This is all that concerns me. You know what? I'm going to New York to check how to write it. But first, I'll have to fight with my fellow Arabs on who gets on the plane.

Enzain,, because I care, here is something (not)worthy of sharing:

"Calls for a full cessation of hostilities based upon, in particular, the immediate cessation by Hezbollah of all attacks and the immediate cessation by Israel of all offensive military operations"

In particular <-
Hizbollah attacks <-
Israeli offensive military operations <-

Maby a7alif, but I have NO DOUBT IN MY MIND WHATSOEVER that someone in the room where this resolution was put together has raised their hand, and asked: "should we write down 'Israeli defensive military operations', or would that be over-killing it?'

*Silence*

That is all. Let's just say that my imaginery phonecall with Mr President makes a lot more sense, and is a lot more worthy to "live by" than the UNSCR 1701.

PS: If you had Olmert's mobile number right now, what would you write to him in an SMS? Regarding his three set goals. Me? I would write: "6ab winnaby ma tegee enkannkin ya Yehud .. ? :)"

May 17th, 2006

I make my way out the door of our house - what's left of it at least. The house, not the door. I'm going to the hospital just under a kilometer away. I'm thinking I'd really appreciate it if the guys who are usually there would give me a break this time round. The time is 4 in the am and I've already missed prayer at the mosque - which is 2 kilometers away. That's why I'm going to the hospital. For the water to wash before prayer. I'm not using the sand today to get ready for prayer because I'm sick and tired of lying to my mother about why the water isn't running. I always tell her that I always reach the hopsital - who are supplying us - and they promise me that it is fixed now. Truth is, I don't even go to the hospital. You would know why if you ever come across those guys who are between my house and the hopsital. They are usually the worst after noon prayer. They look really angry at my uncle every time.
Anyway, now I reach them. They're a group of five. Okay two more just came from around the truck. Seven guys all strapped with identical helmets and who, later in the morning, when I make the trip back, usually have the same sunglasses. For some reason, they all have the number 5 - in Arabic - written on the sides of those glasses. Some come with blue lenses, some with silver; I think they're cool. But I never stole from those guys, I only steal from the guys who are behind the mosque. There. I'm pointing to my left now, to tell you where the mosque is. Wait. One of the guys is calling out for me, he's signalling his way. I'm making my way towards him. "Where you off to?" I'm looking to my right, my left, and I look back, I'm not sure if he's talking to me because his helmet is covering his eyes and I can't see where he's looking.
He's leaning down, kneeling to his knee, and I think he's patting my head. I get really nervous, sometimes, I do it in my pants. I hate that when it happens, because I would have to wait for 7asaan at the hospital - he usually goes at night. He runs the water and washes my pants. I also hate it because 7asaan says I have to go again and pray because my prayer the first time will not be accepted. I believe him.
"Hiya son, what's your name?"
I'm shrugging to tell this guy that I really don't know what he's saying. "Ismaq? Ismaq?". I hear laughter, so I turn my head to see across his shoulder and see the guys who are dressed just like him standing on the big truck and laughing. I look down my pants to check if they're laughing at me, but they're not because I haven't done anything. The guy kneeling in front of me is patting on my head "Go on now, go on." As he gets up, I notice the flag on his right hand sleeve. I remember this flag from 3 years ago. A nice man gave me a big one when my mother told him it was my ninth birthday. It has blue, red, and white. I think it looks okay, but I think the Iraqi flag is much nicer.
I am now just crossing the truck. "BO!". I hear louder laughter. I look to my right, I'm still walking, and see this big guy pointing at me and laughing, "did you see that scared little rat? BO!" I am not sure if I am in trouble. Again. Maybe the guys behind the mosque told them I stole a bar of chocolate from the box they had in their truck. I think that's why they look angrily at my uncle everytime. Maybe because they know he doesn't punish me for stealing the chocoalte.
I'm walking, I don't want to run because I'm afraid they will use those guns. Right there, they don't have them out now. Except that one, he has it strapped around his shoulder. I'm afraid of that one, I'm now across the truck. I look back and the guy with the gun on his shoulder is looking at me. I'm waving to him but he doesn't do anything. Maybe he's just making sure I don't get the chocolate bar out of my pocket now. Maybe he knows I stole it and that's why he has the gun, and why they were laughing, and why that big guy said bo.