Saturday, 17 March 2007


On the Morning of his rebirth, he walked out the room..where he spent the previous night in contemplation over his existence..his purpose in life, the Sword which he had hung on the wall for years has finally poked his conscious, his soul was uneasy as he realized that the man he was, was nothing more than a pawn on a chess board, he walked to the fountain in his courtyard, and submerged his head..baptizing his soul in ice cold water, he declared a revolution..promising his past, his present and his future to return to his origins..the noble man who roamed the desert, lending a helpful hand to the destitute and the poor.

His exile was now even more foreign, as his inner estrangement was more than his bearing, he gasped for the air of air is like the air of Cordoba, even his lungs knew that the air filling their corners was foreign, he couldn't let go of the memory, that old man had a very enduring gaze..his eyes were those of a man who had witnessed the beginning of time.

Our friend was full of mysteries yet to be unraveled, his golden past inscribed in poetry was a prologue to his future, this was the beginning, and the best was yet to come, he remembered a free soul he had sought back in Cordoba, she had the beauty of Ancient Queens, the grace of Greek goddesses..and all the pride of Andalusia. If perfection existed, she would've been the one to prove it, she could argue with men over religious rules, then have a philosophical duel with the greatest philosophers, and with one look from those deep brown eyes..she would turn the world around, she had Cordoba at her fingertips, and when she walked under the moonlight, one would think that the moon was actually under her spell, clouds would clear..and the full moon would light her she walked by the Great Mosque of Cordoba, worshipers would be taken away from their prayers..but beauty isn't a distraction, it's a fortification of faith..a sign of the greatness of to whom prayers rise.

She knew the art of Andalusian singing, her velvet voice was heard miles away..people would sit in their gardens and listen as the wind carried the tunes from afar, even foes of Cordoba laid arms as her singing penetrated hearts..united humans for a fraction of time. Madness creates genius, or vice versa, but one thing was for sure, his sanity hanged by a thread as he sat there; an exile..a king, a man who had sold his golden past for a present of silver..and a future of sand, he spoke to no human for 3 days..Silence is like being in labour..Zacharias was ordered to abstain from speech when God promised him a son, The Virgin Mary was ordered to seek asylum in silence as she carried her noble son to her people.

He thought of her, and all the words in the world came to his mind, but none were actually spoken, thoughts travel faster than light, he wondered what had become of her, he packed..walked out of his gated paradise, and headed in the direction of Cordoba..where his soul had remained, in search of her, in search of truth..he never found any truth after he had left..everything was tainted in a shade of darkness, nothing paralleled the scent of cordovan jasmin, or the purity of the flowing streams of Andalusia, he sought his past..he wanted it, he wanted be his future, his fuel was Esperanza..Hope.


  1. Ammar.. jad have some mercy. This is perfectionism for me. Each little sentence makes so much sense, and fills me,i don't know it's an overwhelming feeling.
    Listen I literally and seriously suggest you write a novel. balash novel a story, a long one. This "Esperanza" can hold some more. Or I want more!

  2. i just read "the sword", so is this a story you're posting chapters from? until you get to finish it? I'm a bit lost in here.
    are you a writer?

  3. Thanks for the compliment Lubna, well Esperanza is the second episode of the mental endeavour I've decided to launch..The Sword was the in a way you're getting your wish! So keep watching.

    p.s: why would I post chapters of a story?? I assure you this stuff is all mine..God is my witness

  4. I like it a lot..
    It is always interesting to see your character's thoughts,their inner conflicts and longings in words..weaved in a story...they are pretty much like us, we can see our own struggles in them.

    "..submerged his head..baptizing his soul in ice cold water.." like a way to wash ones regrets and guilt and start fresh ..

    I know last time I asked about writing in arabic, this time my question is about the funny side in you..I have seen some comments for you, for a side that you don't show at your wondering if you will ever write something humorous:)

  5. Ammar... Chapters of YOUR story. It's like you're writing one and sharing a chapter by chapter with us in here. That's what i meant:)

  6. I agree with Lubna this is just beautifull.. the words the flow of the story and the meanings are simply great..

    YOu really should think of publishing this.

  7. Lubna, it seems to be the case, I'm writing it as I go and I'm sharing it with you're all the co-authors.

    Noura, well I think my humor tends to be on the sarcastic side, but I never mean to write in a humorous way, or a serious way, I just write..and if what comes out is funny, serious, philosophical..etc then that's a way the what I write is a reflection of my mood..and it's on the philosophical side these days..humor will come..but not intentionally.

    Life, Thanks..we'll see how it goes, keep reading!

  8. Dima (An Oriental Blog)19 March 2007 at 19:43

    Where did my comment go?
    Ok i will remember what i said:
    Thanks for continuing this. i liked the title "Esperanza". This is turning out to be really good. But to tell u the truth i got mixed up shwai. At the end of the first post i thought he went back to Cordoba :s but now in this second post i see that he's somewhere else... where is he?

  9. Lol Dima,
    Your comments always get lost somewhere don't they?!

    Well no..the last thing he did was enter his room, in his palace, on the highest hill overlooking metropolitan, on the edge of Arabia, very far away from Cordoba.