تهنئة من الأعماق

أنيس وبدر والعائلة، توم سوير وصديقه هاااك والمجرم إنجنجو ، السيدة ملعقة والدكتور نعمان والأبناء شرشور وفرفور وزعبور والعم رحمون والأبناء سنان وبنان ولالا، الأصدقاء غرندايزر وفيغا وساسوكي، أبناء العم سندباد وعلي بابا والعم علاء الدين وياسمينة، سبع المدهش وعقيلته رومي الجميلة، واللاعب كمال نسيم واللاعب رياض واللاعب دبّوس يهنؤون الأخ والعم والصديق العزيز

حميدو شامل

بمناسبة فوزه في الإنتخابات النيابية بهدفين نظيفين ويتمنون له رحلة سعيدة وبالرفاه والبنين وإنا لله وإنا إليه راجعون، وبهذه المناسبة، يهدي كل من عدنان ولينا والطفل عبسي الأغنية التالية لجميع الفائزين وحظاً أوفر للذين لم يحالفهم الحظ في السحوبات القادمة

Beirut

Some cities have an aura of warmth; an ancient prayer that echos against their walls as time passes, possessing you as it repossesses its reign over your sense of being, as you become an extra in their big show of eternal pre-existence.

I just got back from Beirut, or Beyrouth as she's known to her offspring, and despite my overt confession of the superiority of Amman to all other cities, despite her intellectual drought and barren lineage, Beirut takes over you, with her ancient post modern charm and subtle madness. There was a fresh juice vendor outside where I stayed in Hamra, with his humble cart and incredible resemblance to Iraq's Tariq Aziz, and for the few mornings I was there, he got me used to a cool cup of fresh orange juice, and despite our short lived acquaintance; I got a sense of his noble poverty, one of pride, without prejudice.

Cities have souls, and they remain young and playful like two lovers exchanging glances across a room full of strangers, even if their faces show signs of aging; Beirut has a mysterious charm, one I don't long for, but whenever I experience, I miss, like a love I've not yet experienced but know of its hypnotic effect.

The Mental Trips of Sinbad

Human experience is like an ancient work of mosaic; small pieces of colored rock, which on their own have no value whatsoever other than their colorful identity, but when they're conjoined to one another, they create a lasting work of art called our lives. The small pieces of rock come to life with their simple representation of human trace, a bloodstain of a one time existence, an assertion of being.

Sometimes, the simplest, most obvious realization of existence comes through a mirror; an actual one or one which reflects within the human mind, and sometimes, we need to see our own reflection to truly believe that we're right there, and that despite our dissolve and submergence in our oceans of perceived realities, we really do leave a trace of our humanity behind, a heartbeat of sorts that echoes like a reflection off a mirror within our chests and beyond to tell us we're alive, the most important part in this process is to hear your own echo, and see your own reflection, before seeking to be heard and seen.

Deus Vult

In July of the year 1187, the holy city of Jerusalem was on the eve of its recapture from the crusaders, ending an 88 year occupation of the city, and heralding the collapse of foreign occupation of the Levant, and Jerusalem in particular, for the following 700 years.

I've been reading about the siege of Jerusalem by Saladin, prior to its liberation in October of 1187, and among what I came across, was the chronicle of a crusader squire (arms bearer) called Ernoul, in which he describes the scene in the last days of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, as it lay besieged by Saladin, days before the battle for it began, resulting in its subsequent surrender and liberation.

In the chronicle, Ernoul declared that "…Our Lord did not deign to hear the prayers or noise that was made in the city. For the stench of adultery, of disgusting extravagance and of sin against nature would not let their prayers rise to God."

Eight hundred and twenty three years later, and as history tends to repeat itself in words as in actions, Jerusalem is occupied again, and Ernoul's account of the reasons for crusader defeat and downfall, seems to be fit to repeat, as he speaks in French, from beyond his grave -wherever that may be- describing the reasons for his one time conquerors' defeat and downfall.

إِنَّ اللهَ لا يُغَيِّـرُ مَا بِقَومٍ حَتَّىٰ يُغَيِّـرُوا مَا بِـِأنفُسِهم وَإِذَا أَرَادَ اللهُ بِقَومٍ سُوءًا فَلا مَرَدَّ لَهُ وَمَا لَهُم مِّن دُونِهِ مِن وَالٍ

"Allah changeth not the condition of a folk until they (first) change that which is in their hearts; and if Allah willeth misfortune for a folk there is none that can repel it, nor have they a defender beside Him"

Emilia

About a month ago, I visited an acquaintance who was staying in a London hospital for a medical procedure, and as I was leaving, I decided to check out the children's ward, out of sheer curiosity.

I was able to go as far as the playroom, which had a large window looking into the hall, where I stood to watch kids at play, despite the curious looks from the nurse across from me. A little girl with thinning blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes was combing the hair of a doll, an amazing irony of sorts. The little girl looked at me, smiled and waved before hiding behind her doll, I smiled and waved back at her, she came out of the playroom, grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, where her mother sat in the corner smiling and telling me that Emilia seems to have liked me, despite my puzzlement of the reason!

I visited Emilia every few days, I had imaginary tea with her using her little tea set, her eyes would shine every time I reached into my pocket and brought out candy or lollipops, and when I promised her to get her a nice present if she behaves and takes her medicine like she's supposed to, her smile filled the room as she nodded in a sincere manner reassuring me of her commitment to our little agreement, sometimes I would stay late at work and she'd already be asleep by the time I got there; she always slept hugging a brown teddy bear with a pink bow tie.

Emilia had been in remission from cancer for the past few months. Last Sunday, she suddenly fell into a coma, I saw her last Tuesday, and she looked as if she was taking a nap, with her brown teddy bear smiling at her side.

Emilia left this earth yesterday aged 5, and for the short time I knew her, I knew an angel who passed my way; smiled, waved, and grabbed my hand into heaven.

Underneath The Lemon Tree..

One of the wonders of the human mind, is its capability to explore the behavioural discourse of emotions, an attempt to understand one's own self, and in doing so, removing the proverbial blindfold over one's mind, and pursuing greater understanding of our place in this infinite universe.

There are two seemingly independent emotions: Sadness, and Anger, yet both are probably created from the same seed, but their path of growth takes them in separate directions. You see, Sadness; is a reaction of the soul to an exterior action; from someone or something that is perceived to be superior; a loved one who's been granted that superior status in our emotions to other people who have less influence over our emotional structure, like passers by outside our door, or; something that holds high regard in our hearts and minds: a job, a material possession, in which case it is transformed as it matures into a 3rd emotion; disappointment, and makes its own path of emotional discourse.

Anger on the other hand, is a reaction to something that's perceived to be inferior. The behavioural discourse of anger is a physical or verbal show of force, an attempt to assert our own superior status against another in an argument, or to shield our feeling of inferiority through a Don Quixote fashioned exercise of force, a subconscious attempt to substitute our genuine feeling of defeat; both collective, and individual, An attempt to convince ourselves and our surroundings of the virtue of this choice of reactionist emotion, in acheiving a mini satisfaction which gives us the illusion of victory in this man eat man world.

Although, and since one is exploring human behaviour, and trying to reach one's own peace, Sadness is a more positive emotion, despite its negative discourse, as it's directed within, unlike anger which is an outward emotion directed towards others, and seeks satisfaction in vengeance. Sadness lends delicacy to emotions, as it cleanses the soul from its perceived wrongs as it involves a feeling of guilt, a correction mechanism of the soul, an instinctive attempt to make it more susceptible to good, more accepting and forgiving, and ultimately, more patient, and in doing so, reaching an inner satisfaction that's felt but not desplayed, as it results in getting closer to the soul's original nature of rejecting injustice, abuse and offence; against one's self and others, which is, at the end; the ultimite wisdom of all.

"الحكمة ضالة المؤمن فحيث وجدها فهو أحق بها"

حديث شريف

Ya Msa7arni

There's a msa7arati who passes by our neighbourhood every night, I've noticed him a few years ago as he began this annual tradition of reminder of the immanent dawn; his subtle call for the dormant to seek God in those moments of temporal obscurity, before the thin thread of light crosses paths with darkness as it sweeps it away like spilled milk on dark marble.

He passes by every single night, almost at the same time, as if his choreographed appearance was part of a play that's been showing for decades; he's grown aware of the art of timing, and the importance of being in the right place at the right time, a philosophical exercise of movement and intellect, a predestined commitment of sorts.

Sometimes, it takes a passing drummer to wake up our numb conscience, the one that became comfortable with its idle existence and stationary presence; That passing drummer who's set out on a journey of awakening, wakes up more that bodies and minds. Sometimes; he wakes up souls that have been lying in slumber for millennia, unaware of their potential, not in the material world of gain and loss, but in the world of the unearthly pleasures of contentment; giving, and forgiving.

The msa7arati still passes by every night, but this year; I'm already awake and seeking God's guidence, as he makes his way to tomorrow.

Ramadan Kareem.