مشاركات جريدة الأضواء العدد الأول 23 مارس 2025 م
The First Lady by the
Egyptian novelist: Metwally Basal
first
lady
Written
by
Metwally
Basal
Egypt
One
of the stories from the collection (Love in Lost Time)
Her husband's work in the
Organization and Administration Building earned them awe and respect among the
neighbors in the old district, next to Al-Nafees Mosque. Looks of envy followed
her, her husband, and her three daughters with every visit and return. Although
their lives continued at the same, unchanging pace, the rumors that were passed
around confirmed that her husband's earnings from his sensitive and important
position were very large!
She used to avoid mixing
with her neighbors, and so did her husband. He never cared to befriend any of
the neighbors, to the point that he didn't even know the name of any of them,
whether man, woman or child! On the contrary, everyone knew everything about
them, big or small, due to their frequent quarrels together! Their quarrels were
almost daily, and continued even after his mother's death. It seems that the
reasons for them were now limited to the presence of his disabled sister, and
her living with them in the apartment. She considered the presence of this sick
sister a threat to her daughters' future. Who would welcome marriage to a girl
with a crazy aunt!
She became more ferocious
than before, she was not willing to wait until her sister died too, so she
could have her own small kingdom and feel safe in it, even though this kingdom
was only an apartment, and although it was large in area, it was very old!
She often tried to portray
herself as an important lady; the wife of an important man, and her husband
also tried to present himself in a beautiful image, befitting his prestigious
position, which he had reached to the point that no building in Damietta, no
matter how big or small, could see the light of day without obtaining his
approval and personal signature, and without that signature, that building
would be considered nonexistent!
They tried hard, but soon
this polished image was shaken and became distorted because of their endless
quarrels, and because of the problems caused by his disabled sister, even
though she was confined to her room most of the time!
She tried so hard to
convince her husband to send his sister to a mental hospital, but he refused
adamantly, and she always frightened him by saying:
- Hamdi, the girls have grown
up, and at any moment you will be surprised by a groom asking for the hand of
one of them. What will he think when he sees your crazy sister?!
- Suhaam, please don't call
her crazy. She is mentally disabled, not crazy!
- Crazy, a million times
crazy. Don't you see the scandals she causes us every day? She never stops
screaming from the window and flirting with everyone. If you don't want to
admit this, then you are free to do so, but it is forbidden for you to harm
your daughters. Your sister's presence will scare away suitors and grooms!
Marriage is destiny , and God willing, our
daughters’ destiny will be good!
- It's all fate, but we must take
precautions, Hamdi. Our eldest daughter, Sarah, finished her studies three
years ago, and yet no one has proposed to her yet. It's the same with Salwa and
Samia, even though each one of them is over twenty!
Every time he assured her
that he knew what was best for his daughters and was concerned about them, but
at the same time he insisted that his sister was a red line and that it was
impossible for her to leave the apartment!
His insistence on having
her with them was driving her crazy; to the point that she thought more than
once of getting rid of her, until one morning, after he had gone to work, and
the girls were fast asleep, she sneaked into his sister's room, and tricked her
into getting out of the apartment! Most of the shops were closed at that time,
so she took her to the train station and bought a one-way ticket to Cairo. She
didn't leave her until the train had left, then she returned to the apartment
quietly and slept as if nothing had happened!
She knew that Cairo was big
and that Jamila would get lost in the crowd. She was saying to herself as she
lay in bed:
- Jamila is stupid and crazy,
her tongue is stuck, her speech is incomprehensible, and she has nothing with
her that indicates her personality or address. She will definitely not come
back. The eternal problem is over. Hamdi will be sad for a week, maybe a month,
but in the end he will forget her, and we will live our lives in peace like the
rest of the people!
Her husband returned at
three in the afternoon, as usual, and found her and the girls crying. She told
him that when she woke up, she discovered Jamila had disappeared. She and the
girls went out to look for her in the streets but couldn't find a trace of her!
He went crazy and went out
looking for her. It was midnight and he hadn't returned. She was overcome with
anxiety and insomnia. Then she was surprised by a phone call from the
specialized hospital telling her that her husband was in intensive care as a
result of a stroke! She screamed and fell to the ground, collapsed, not
believing what she had been told. Her sobs rose, and she said in astonishment:
- You love your sister this
much! If I had disappeared, you wouldn't have been so sad... a stroke... to
this extent!
At the hospital, she felt
the horror of her crime as she saw her husband between life and death, with
tiny tubes implanted in his neck and parts of his body, and him unconscious!
She even considered traveling to Cairo and searching for Jamila to save him, as
he looked as if he was suffering the throes of death!
She received a phone call
on her husband's phone, which an employee in the intensive care unit had given
her, along with some of her husband's other belongings. On the other side, she
heard a loud voice that pounded her eardrums, informing her that Jamila was
being kept safe and that he would bring her with him in the morning on the
first train to Damietta. She was astonished and wondered how the owner of the
voice knew her husband's phone number! And how did he know that Jamila was from
Damietta? It's impossible that she could have told him; she couldn't have!
As the sun rose the next
day, she was sitting on one of the station benches. She was careful not to
bring any of her daughters with her, as she was afraid that the girls would
understand the beautiful signs and words and know that their mother was
responsible for everything that had happened.
I was surprised that the
one coming with Jamila was a woman and not a man, as I understood from the
hoarse, loud voice that spoke to her! A strong woman in her fifties sat next to
her after she had seated Jamila, who looked in a pitiful state! She surprised
her with her strange, rough voice as she said:
- Your daughter was in
trouble! How could you leave her alone?! Shame on you; bastards are everywhere
like rabid dogs!
- No, she is not our
daughter, she is the sister of my husband, Engineer Hamdi.
- Hamdi! The only word on her
tongue was "Hit it, hit it, my love", she was calling her brother!
- Are you from Cairo?!
- No, I am from Tanta!
- Tanta! Did she go to Tanta?!
- Madam, does she know Tanta
from Auntie?! I told you bastards are everywhere. By God, your daughter would
have been gone long ago.
- You are very chivalrous,
thank God you found her before anything bad happened to her!
- It's disgusting, madam. I
was standing in front of the station, on the station platform. I heard the
guard screaming, and Singa the thug was pulling her hair like a sacrificial
animal, and dragging her in front of him. When people gathered to help her, he
got furious like a raging bull, and claimed that she was his sister, and that
he wanted to bring her back home. Of course, all the people believed him out of
fear! And even those who didn't believe him couldn't open their mouths! Because
he's a thug and a debauchee!
- My dear, may God curse him,
he must have had bad intentions!
His intention was to rape
her ,
and
then he could have killed her and thrown her away. But I swear to God, I
couldn’t bear it. I left the bed, got up, and saved her from him!
- But you said that he is a
thug, and he will definitely take revenge on you!
- He's a bully, madam. You're
excused for not hearing about me. Thanks to God, I'm strong and everyone
respects me. Don't be fooled by my appearance! Glory be to He who made my heart
yearn for your daughter!
Before she left to catch
the train that would take her back to Tanta, she took a piece of paper out of
her clothes and handed it to her, saying:
The paper with the address and phone
number was in the heart of the contract!
I remembered that Hamdi was
keen to keep this necklace around his sister's neck. He always insisted that
she wear it!
In the hospital, as soon as
Hamdi saw his sister, his condition improved and he recovered quickly, as if
his soul had returned to him again!
Hamdi returned home, and
Suham began to accept Jamila's presence, despite her reluctance, after seeing
how attached her husband was to her. She had never seen a brother who loved his
sister so much in her life! Days passed while she dreamed of a way to get rid
of this thorn in her throat, but without causing her husband any harm or injury.
She concluded that the most appropriate way to do so was to marry her off!
But when she presented the
matter to Hamdi, he met her with a strong refusal! She tried to convince him in
every way, but she did not succeed until she asked for a divorce. Then he
showed her his approval, saying to her confidently:
There is no sane person in this world
who would think of marrying a thirty-two-year-old girl, while her mental age is
only six years. Is it reasonable for a beautiful woman to get married? A
beautiful woman, if she needs to drink, says “Embo.” Shame on you, Suhaam!
His words did not dampen
her resolve. She went around all the marriage facilitation offices, and spent a
lot of her time and money. Months passed while she was trying but to no avail.
Then she heard about Sheikha Sundus, an old woman who almost resides in the
Great Sea Mosque. Some call her the matchmaker, others call her Umm Al Hannah,
but everyone calls her Sheikha Sundus! Her fame reached the horizon in bringing
people together and marrying those who want to get married; to the point that
those who know her say that she marries the genie! And this was exactly what
Suhaam was looking for.
Before the week was over,
she was surprised by the blessings of Sheikha Sundus who descended upon her.
She told her on the phone that she had found the right man who suited Jamila.
It is true that he was younger than her, as he was twenty-seven years old, but
he had a bachelor’s degree and was going to complete his studies and get a master’s
degree and a doctorate, but fate did not give him time. He was hit by a car and
as a result, he became disabled, as his brain was greatly affected. This was
evident in his speech and movements. She told her that he had an apartment in
New Damietta that was ready and furnished with the finest furniture, and that
his sister, whose name was Iman, was responsible for him and would come with
him!
At the appointed time, she
opened the door and started pacing the apartment, not believing that Jamila
would get married. Her heartbeat did not stop until she saw with her own eyes
the promised groom climbing the stairs with the help of his sister. She
welcomed them with great warmth and enthusiasm, as if she were receiving her
daughter’s groom, then she led them into the reception room. He was limping
with his left leg, and his right arm was hanging down beside his body. His back
was bent in a striking way, and his good hand and neck did not stop shaking.
His hand was constantly trembling, and his head was shaking in a strange way.
But despite all this, he had a handsome face and childlike features. His sister
sat him down, then sat next to him, saying:
- My brother Ashraf is the
groom and I am his sister Iman. I think Sheikha Sundus told you everything!
- Welcome, Professor
Ashraf... Welcome, Professor Iman... Okay, Sheikha, you have told me everything.
How quickly the younger
daughter, Samia, entered with her aunt, Jamila, in her finest adornment, then
withdrew to join her two sisters who were hiding behind the door, following
what was happening with passion! The eldest, Sarah, was amazed. Despite the
groom's seeming foolishness and naivety, he was very handsome; to the point
that she said with regret:
You are very lucky, my aunt.
Your groom is the best!
As for Samia and Salwa,
they were drowning in laughter at what was going on between Ashraf and Jamila!
Days passed, and Suham
tried in every way to complete the expected marriage, despite her husband's
strong opposition! One night, while Ashraf was sitting with Jamila, and his
sister Iman was sitting with Suham, Ashraf wanted to go to the bathroom, so his
sister got up to help him until he reached the bathroom door. She forgot to
wait for him and went back to finish her conversation with Suham. When Ashraf
came out, he didn't find his sister and didn't notice the two eyes that were
silently following him from behind the curtains! There was a long corridor
between the bathroom and the reception room, and on the wall next to the bathroom
door was a large mirror. He stood in front of it, adjusting his clothes, and
suddenly, he straightened his spine and moved his arm, which he hadn't been
able to move before. Sarah was amazed to see him moving so smoothly! He was
fine, his arm, his leg, everything about him was fine, so why was he playing
the role of the helpless fool?!
She told her mother what
she had seen, but at first she did not believe her and thought it was a trick
by her husband to ruin the marriage. But when she realized her daughter was
telling the truth, she said to her, pleading:
- The subject is strange and
really weird, Sarah, but your father is against your aunt’s marriage, and if we
told him what you told me now, your aunt would stay in the apartment and would
never get married. Please, my love, don’t tell him!
- But mom, why is this dusty
groom playing the role of the stupid idiot?! We've only seen his sister. Where
are the rest of his family? Doesn't he have a father or a mother? And where is
his sister's husband? Why doesn't he come?!
- My dear, the important
thing is that we get rid of Jamila. He marries her first, and if it turns out
that he is a thief or a con artist, he will be the loser!
- Mom, suppose they are an
organ trafficking gang... No, it is my aunt, Dad's sister, after all. I will
tell Dad everything. I will not allow my poor aunt to be a victim of these
swindlers!
On the next visit, after
Ashraf and his sister had sat down as usual, Hamdi made sure to be there. A little
while after the tea tray had passed around and the anesthetic had started to
take effect, Hamdi tied Ashraf and his sister up with the ropes he had brought
for this purpose! When they woke up, he threatened to report them to the police
if they didn't tell him the truth. Iman said, trying to hide her panic:
It is better for you not to report it to the
police because then you will be the one who will go to jail, not me or my
brother!
- I'm the one who's going to
jail! Why? Because I tied you up after I found out you were a gang of swindlers?!
- No, you will go to prison
because you are a corrupt employee!
Blood ran down his face,
but he tried to control himself in front of his wife and eldest daughter,
Sarah, and said to her:
- I thought you were a gang
that trades in organs, as my daughter said, but now I understand what you want
from my sister. But how did you know about this matter?!
My husband is an accountant at the same
bank where I opened an account in Jamila's name years ago!
- You criminals, so the
marriage was a plan to steal my money!
Seham and Sarah were
stunned as they were looking at him, not believing what was happening.
Suddenly, Seham cried out in pain:
You put your money in your
crazy sister's account, but you are stingy with your wife and daughters!
- You crazy girl, you are my
wife, and if I put money in your account, it will be confiscated if my secret
is discovered... Siham, I did all this for you and the girls, all to secure
your future!
- How much is this money,
Hamdi?
Iman replied slyly:
- I would like you to
introduce me... It would be better if we parted ways and you let us go in
peace. I would like you to know that my husband knows everything, and if we
delay any longer, he will inform the police. Believe me, you will find the
police outside your apartment door if we delay any longer!
After
everyone revealed their cards, Ashraf and his sister Iman left and never
returned, but they left a huge rift that could not be healed or repaired. This
rift was not what happened between Hamdi and Seham because of the millions he
put in Jamila’s account. He was able to please his wife by sacrificing a few
million to put at her disposal. However, the huge rift that no one noticed was
the break that struck Jamila’s heart. Despite her clear disability and
inability to express her feelings, her heart had become attached to Ashraf, and
she began to wait impatiently for his arrival. When his visits stopped and they
closed the door to her room so that she could not go out to look for him, she
was struck with intense sadness. She refused to eat, her movement decreased,
and her condition worsened noticeably. Before the month was out, her soul took
flight in peace, and the apartment was finally vacated for Seham, who became,
for the first time, the first lady in her house. But the strange thing is that
after Jamila’s death, the family moved to Ras El Bar. They appeared to be very
rich and wealthy, so much so that those who knew them thought that Jamila had
left them a huge inheritance!
One
of the stories from the collection (Love in Lost Time)
ANGELA
KOSTA - ALBANIA & ITALY
HOPE
Hope
is the subtle light that darkness challenges
is the here in the heart, even when the world is silent,
is the whisper that in tears, promises
Sprouting rose petals in silence
it is the breeze that the face gently caresses.
Hope is the smile of the eyes
that the fears of challenge,
it is the Supernova that guides us towards the universe
It is the outstretched hand when the path is unsafe
it is salvation, in the stormy ocean of life.
Hope is our solemn courage
Even if the abyss drags us
It's that ray of sunshine, going through the cracks
and inside our soul resides.
(By
Angela Kosta Executive Director of the Magazines: MIRIADE, NUANCES ON THE
PANORAMIC CANVAS, BRIDGES OF LITERATURE, journalist, poet, essayist, publisher,
literary critic, editor, translator, promoter)
BIOGRAPHY
BY ANGELA KOSTA
Angela
Kosta was born in Elbasan (Albania) and has lived in Italy since 1995. She is
Executive Director of the Magazines: MIRIADE, NUANCES ON THE PANORAMIC CANVAS,
BRIDGES OF LITERATURE, translator, essayist, journalist, literary critic,
publisher and promoter. She has published 25 books: novels, poems and fairy
tales in Albanian, Italian, Arabic, French, Korean, Turkey, Spanish and
English.
The
proceeds of his two books in Italy were donated to the non-profit association
for research on Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) and to the Association
Daniele Chianelli for scientific research on Leukemia, Tumors and Lymphomas in
children and adults. His poetic volume translated by scholar and writer Hasan
Nashid, approved by the Bangladeshi Ministry of Culture, will soon be published
in Bengali.
Her
publications and translations have been published in various literary magazines
and newspapers in several continental and intercontinental countries.
Angela
Kosta translates and writes articles and interviews for the newspaper
"Calabria Live", Agorà Giovani,, Saturno magazine, Alessandria Today
Magazine, the international magazine "Orfeu:", the newspaper
"Nacional", Gazeta Destinacioni, Perqasje Italo - Shqiptare, the
magazine "Atunis", she collaborates with the magazines:
"International Literature Language Journal (Michigan), Wordsmith
International Editorial (Florida), Raven Cage (Germany), Kavya Kishor
International Australia & Bangladesh, Sindh Courier (Pakistan), Sada Al
Thaqafa (Iraq), Al Masida (Egjypt), etj.
She
is co-host in several anthologies in: USA, England, India, Bangladesh, Albania,
Russia, Germany, Kosovo, etc.
Angela
Kosta has translated 170 authors into bilingual: Italian - Albanian and vice
versa and has promoted over 600 poets in various national and international
literary magazines as well as translating the books of poems by 7 authors. She
has also translated the poems of important italian classics, nobelists and many
other famous authors.
She
has promoted more than 85 artists by publishing the magazine 22 MARKERS ON
GLOBAL ART in November 2024 and NUANCES ON THE PANORAMIC CANVAS in January
2025.
She
has carried out and published in various languages more than 70 interviews with
well-known publishers, journalists, writers, artists, authors, painters
Angela
Kosta is Vice President of the South Korea Writers' Association, Ambassador for
Culture and Peace in varius Organization no - profit in: Bangladesh, Poland,
Morocco, Canada, Algeria, Egypt, Mexico, Romania, India, etc.
She
is also a member of the Writers' League (LSHASH) and BSHBSH - Italy, Academy of
Arte and Science America (AAA), Writers Capital Foundation, Women's Chair UN
Approved Women's Chair and Wikipoetry, Wikipace, Tiberina Academic, The
VerbumlandiArt Association approved by the Senate of the Italian Republic,
League of Writers and Artists in: Greece, Poland, Hungary, Mexico, Romania,
Croatia, India.
In
Italy many important newspapers and magazines have written various articles
about Angela Kosta:
La
Nazione, Il Messaggero, Il Corriere dell'Umbria, Revista Confidenze, Il
Quotidiano d'Italia, Umbria 7, News Diretta, Umbria 24, Vivo Umbria, etc., and
prominent international critics have praised her writing: Francesca Gallello,
(writer, screenwriter, journalist, director of Saturno magazine, Italy),
Mustafa Gökçek (journalist and literary critic, Turkey), El Majjad (journalist,
literary critic, Iraq), Pier Carlo Lava (publisher), Rasim Maslic (journalist,
painter, writer, Croatia), Fabrizio Ciocchetti (writer, journalist, Italy), Elena
Caruso (journalist, literary critic), Federica Mastroforti (journalist),
Adriano Bottaccioli (writer, Director of Art), Paolo Ippoliti (journalist),
Enzo Beretta (journalist), Simone Strati Editore, Nasir Aijaz journalist, poet,
scholar, publisher, (Pakistan), Dibran Fylli, Academic, Director, poet, editor-in-chief, Ndue
Dragusha, poet, editor, essayist, Rifat Ismaili, writer, literary critic,
essayist, Kujtim Hajdari, editor, poet, essayist, etc...
Angela
Kosta has been translated and published in 40 foreign languages and foreign
countries. In 2024 alone, it has been published in 150 national and
international newspapers and magazines, with: poems, articles, interviews,
books, reviews, etc. She has received numerous awards from various magazines
and newspapers. In 2023, the magazine OBELISK declared her, among others, the
best translator with translations of the Nobelist poet Giosuè Alessandro
Giuseppe Carducci, as well as the Moroccan newspaper Akhbar7 proclaimed her the
Celbrity Woman for 2023. In 16 January 2025, The International Poetry
Translation and Research Centre, the Journal of Rendition of International
Poetry (Multilingual), The Board of Directors of World Union of Poetry
Magazines - CHINA proclamed : has been appointed by the IPTRC VOTING INTERNATIONAL
EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE AS THE INTERNATIONAL: BEST POET OF THE YEAR 2024,
ARBEN ILIAZI – ALBANIA
ArbenIliazi
was born on March 1, 1963, in Saranda (Albania). He graduated from the Faculty
of Philology in Tirana in 1988. Until 1991, he worked as a screenwriter and
then dedicated himself to journalism, serving as a journalist and
editor-in-chief for several daily newspapers in the capital. He is known as a
poet, essayist, and playwright.
ALL THAT I HAVE LOVED
All that I have loved
I do not know why
is placed in a test tube
of dreams
with a shimmering
glow.
It stirs me
beautifully,
purely,
to the depths of
longing, ready to ascend
towards the betrayed
sky
where the regret of a
regret
lies hidden.
BIOGRAPHY
Certainly
An explanation
Everyone
Should have it
I was born
in a death
I died
in a life…
That’s
all I remember.
ESCAPE
Here I am, finally, and
I… am leaving… tired
To the shells of the
invisible islands
Towards my known
unknown
Where the dream of
the moon, hidden.
The sea accompanies
me as always
Thoughts swirl
bitten by regret!
They burn tears from
the anxiety of the
marble Melt like waves to
waves.
I am leaving… yes, I
am leaving
From myself, and from
others
With my secrets
to remain closed
And with the
brightness
of the unborn day…
Bending over me
with washed rays of
light
A vision appears
and disappears like a
seed.
In the self of others
you will never see
me…
TO THE RIVERS
To the rivers that flow
beneath the earth
like a pure swimmer
I sail
alone in this world,
to confess to the sea
the lost youth
somewhere outside of
myself.
And the sorrow
painted
over the waters
of fate
that quenches desires
and extinguishes i
n yellow tides
the sin…
THE STATUES
The statues revolve
among us,
the sorrow of
centuries
drips in the square,
soul-stirred
in the white
coldness,
they observe the
present
without history,
where chasms echo,
the
abyss.
HOMAGE
The life of the
departed person
always lingers in our
sight,
whispering
full of sorrow
and sighing,
fluttering
in the deep ocean
without sails
and without masts,
where among
reflections the sun arches
the sunset,
intoxicated by the
sensual love of
forgetting.
MY IMPOSSIBILITIES
Ah, my impossibilities
Like the lost
invisible acropolises!
They dance and dance
in the air,
beautiful,
pure,
stiff,
lifeless,
Leaving from the living
deads
And they return again
to myself, with
longing.
THE STEPS OF EACH
The steps of each end
somewhere while scornfully
dismissing the
Medaurs in a mystical blue
deep,
like a drunken sail
that hangs suspended
over the ocean
and foresees the
storm.
On the smooth
facades of the
amphorae
the glow is absorbed
by the majestic faces
of yesterday
that triumphantly
and fiercely
roar…
LONELINESS
From the intoxication
of loneliness
I have been shortened
thinned.
In the arrangement of
the disordered
life has slipped away
from me…
Ah, white loneliness,
little black foot
A bit younger than
death!
AH…
A bird comes
to my tree
Chirping With laziness
Ah, I am late
to the mass of the
olive trees…
I HAVE TIME…
I have not seen you for
a while
The seagulls cry
Somewhere else now
With shiny wings
Of silver.
In the hours of sand
Winter has come.
Nothing moves
When the waves swirl
around the sun.
A canoe, like a slender
ship,
sees dreams beneath
the sky.
Run
and run
with
my statue in hands
to
place it
where
the world's madness ends,
where
the grass flourishes
of
times
unlived...
I
DRANK THE MORNING
I
drank this morning
out
of longing for two eyes
But
if the light dies
I
swear
I
won't die for you!
AUTUMN
RAIN
I
sit and gather with fists
the
rain from autumn eaves
Do
you say they are your tears
of
life?
WE
ARE BORN, WE DIE...
We
are born with our stars
We
die in their sunset
Until
we are born, we love
Until
we die
We
forget each other...
WE
HAVE NO TIME...
We
have no time to think
We
play with words
Life
is a theater
Where
vice sleeps with virtue
Immersed
in happiness!
We
have no time to think
We
write poetry...
MAN
AND HISTORY
After
work and after smiles
At
the border of love and hate
Man
and his history
Have
lit lights to see
Each
other's face.
WHO
DIES, IS REMADE
Who
dies, is remade
In
their original form,
Without
the burden of guilt
Weighing
on their back.
They
close their eyes and simultaneously
Settle
with their sorrows
And
the world where they breathed
Urging
it into its follies...
(Translated by
KujtimHajdari)
Please published. Is the Director by important newspaper journal NACIONAL
Thank you very much Dear
ARTICLE by PhD
: GJEKË MARINAJ - ALBANIA
TRANSLATING THE
SIGNIFICANCE OF “TWO” IN BUÇPAPAJ’S TWO SHEETS OF WIND
Grace be unto
you, and peace, from him which is,
and which was, and which is
to come;
and from the seven Spirits
which are
before his throne
(Revelation 1:4)
On August 20, 1997,
CNN and other media sources reported that Mujë Buçpapaj, then the
political editor of the RD newspaper and a prominent political activist, had
been shot and seriously wounded. Following the details of the incident US
reporters interviewed Genc Pollo, at that time the Albanian’s Democratic Party
spokesman, who blamed "the ruling clique" (The Albanian Socialist
Party, formerly known as the Communist Party of Albania) of being behind the
assassination attempt for political reasons. Later conclusive reports indicated
that the poet had received two bullets, one in each thigh, both of which were
fired from a car that had on two police license plates. Yet, unless you are a
literary translator, the significance of the number two in Mujë
Buçpapaj’s Two Sheets of Wind is not indistinguishable with, for
instance, seven in the Bible or in Thomas Mann’s The Magic
Mountain. For Claude C. Freeman III, however, translating its connotation
into English must have been an enormous task. Whether it represents Buçpapaj’s
second chance in life, the two political lives of his country (under communism
and in democracy), the alternation between war and
peace in Kosovo, or the love and hate that exist in today’s world the
number two seems to remain a key word throughout his soon to be published
book Two Sheets of Wind.
Nothing Buçpapaj writes is
without self-awareness, nor is it ever without a specific poetic purpose. He is
known as a poet who likes to crystallize the essential social and political
events and make part of his poetic vision the troubles and the happiness,
the beauty and the ugliness of his experiences. His verse is his sole witness
whenever he finds himself in a complex mixture of personal trauma and fame, the
center of constant political turmoil of his people and their life in peace, the
heat of international anxiety and social disorder, and the magnificence of the
natural beauty that surrounds it all. As complicated as it all sounds, it is a
mixture that often dominates Buçpapaj’s world. It is a reality that he
encountered humanely and poetically and simultaneously reconstructed its impact
into his verse before extending it to Freeman to translate into English.
And that is not a simple task. Because esthetically, particularly
in terms of how he approaches his subject matter and utilizes his metaphors,
Buçpapaj bears a resemblance to the American poet Ted Kooser. The poems of both
poets consist of delicate metaphors, often within larger metaphors, so that the
smallest misrepresentation in translation could alter the metaphor's intended
meaning, destroying its specific function in the poem. To illustrate this
point, let’s direct our attention to the following stanzas taken from two
poems, the first by Buçpapaj and the other by Kooser:
Man built
the other side of life and river
between rain and field
but wind will have its say. (Buçpapaj’s “The wind’s portrait”)
All night, the cities,
like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets
at lonely lights like this. (Kooser’s “Flying at night”).
Clearly, both poets make it
very difficult for any translator to reconstruct the elegance of the above
lines and the internal layers of meaning they offer. Freeman has steered clear
of the danger of either under-translating or over-translating. And that is
important. Within that poetic frame, in addition to triumphing over
the great degree of difficulty of translating multiple metaphors within a
stanza of four short lines stanza, which stands as a metaphor in itself,
Freeman has gone even further towards his goal of capturing the subtleties of
the original. And, to paraphrase Hugo Friedrich, the creative stylistic power
of the Albanian verse is visible in the translation, and it has even
regenerated itself as the creative force stylistically in the English translation
(Schulte and Biguenet 15). Furthermore, maintaining the conceptual hypothesis
within the imagery with such eloquent rendition of the original, as he does,
can be considered nothing short of a remarkable translation.
Nevertheless, knowing that "translation is sin"
(Showerman), such perfection is the exception rather than the rule throughout
the book. Two Sheets of Wind consists of forty eloquent and heartfelt
poems originally written in Albanian (an Indo-European language) that are linguistically
and poetically entrenched in the Albanian culture. What's more, Buçpapaj’s
poems are abundantly composed in accord with the linguistic properties of yet a
deeper localized northern culture within Albanian national culture. One of the
greatest qualities of his work is that Buçpapaj makes the natural beauty of the
Northern Albanian Alps, the awe-inspiring highlands of Tropoja, and the
labyrinthine local language and tradition an integral part of his poetic
distinctiveness. That being said, the process of transferring the original text
into English has forced Freeman to make some tough decisions in translating
Buçpapaj. Following is a short stanza from “The Field of Tplani,” one of
numerous examples of the book where the poet contributes as much linguistically
to the Northern dialect as he does to the Albanian poetic language. First, the
Albanian version of the stanza:
Këneta e Madhe
Han prapë dhè nën brinjë
Të të vdekurve.
Next is Freeman’s translation
of it, which serves as a direct reminder of Montaigne’s suggestion that
"it is risky to translate those who have given their language much grace
and elegance, particularly with a language of less power" including
Albanian:
And the Big Marsh
Still eating the land
From under.
Before I offer my own
version of translation, which I think is more faithful to the original text and
perhaps the intended meaning, I must confess my agreement with Landers who
kindly reminds us that “it is commonly thought that translators deal with
words, but this is only partly true. Whatever their branch of translation, they
also deal with ideas. And literary translators deal with cultures” (Landers
72). Now, here is my translation of the same stanza:
The Big Marsh
Still eats soil under the ribs
Of the dead.
On the one hand, as we see here, the translator added the
conjunction “And” which is not present in the original text. Unsurprisingly,
the word has been available to the poet when he composed the poem but he chose
not to use it. Freeman has also changed the verb tense
from eats to eating. But most importantly, he used the noun
“land” instead of “soil” and omitted “the ribs of the dead,” the most important
portion of the stanza. On the other hand, somehow the stanza still stands its
ground, because Freeman's editing did not fundamentally change the linguistic
and poetic properties of the poem.
In effect, the overall fair accuracy of the translation
throughout the book indicates that Freeman is a good literary translator. A
good translator works with the fact in mind that the poet, the reader, and the
translator are all engaged in the translation process. Together they spin new
qualities, explore poetic labyrinths that might not have been explored in the
original, and create new linguistic properties in the receptor language. In
other words, the above stanza may have lost some of its intended meaning but
has also gained new significance that might be as revelatory to the American
reader as the original is to the Albanian reader. From this point of view, one
has sufficient reason to consider as conditional the idea that "nothing
which is harmonized by the bond of the Muse can be changed from its own to
another language without destroying its sweetness" (Dante).
Even so, Freeman would probably agree with Dante, knowing
firsthand that translators are neither divine nor, unlike fiction writers, do
they have the luxury of freely beautify, ruin or destroy the channels in which
their respective homo sapiens or imaginary characters go through
their predetermined life. Although fragments of poetry often do not readily
translate into English and an affinity between the internal structures of
languages is not always preset, in Two Sheets of
Wind "translation moves between extremes—not literalism, not
improvisation" (Felstiner 30). Despite the consequences of some small liberties
taken by Freeman throughout the poems, most of the linguistic and cultural
properties of the original Albanian as well as the poems' social and historic
aspects, have been transplanted without major artistic discrepancies. Even in
instances where the English language contains no exact equivalent for nouns
like “Tplani” or neologisms like “shpresëpërgjakur,” both of which carry
significant weight in their respective poems, the translator has found a way to
carry over the importance of the words, either by adding a footnote or by
offering the closest possible alternative in their place. Naturally, the level
of expertise and the case-specific research required to succeed over such
hindrances suggest that literary translators must be as much scientists as
artists in their work. They have to be, like Freeman, as considerate to the
text of the author as neurosurgeons in operation. That essential quality of
translation is often found in Two Sheets of Wind. I emphasize the word
“essential” here, not only because Freeman has not ignored “lesser” words and
has considered every jot and title before finalizing his decision (Gregory
Rebassa in Biguenet and Schulte x) but also because he has shown an awareness
that there are no inferior words in any language and that the poet’s choice to
use a specific term for a specific situation should continuously be
honored.
Such care has been applied to “The Powerboats”, one of the many
eloquently translated poems of the Two Sheets of Wind. It serves as clear
evidence that Freeman is considerate of Buçpapaj’s intellectual and poetic
thoughts. Here he translates not words but situations, imagery, tones, internal
rhythms, metaphors, and poetic forms. The poem is self-explanatory:
THE POWERBOATS
Riding the shade of the Adriatic
Flying on a leaf
A patient courage
Death behind
Below
Freedom ahead
The Italian coast
A relative paradise
A heartfelt poem like this,
flawlessly translated, must have been the source of inspiration for the
American poet Frederick Turner who asserts that:
“Buçpapaj's poetry is like
his Balkan land itself: a compacted bundle of tragic energies. In one sense he
is a poet of great simplicity: his passionate images, almost surreal in their
intensity, invoke the lovely world of nature that we all share to his noble
moral intention. But his sensibility is also that of the sophisticated
European, indeed the most ancient of the Europeans; and there is a blunt ironic
recognition of the brutalities of life that can only come from experience of
war (Promotional lines for the back cover).
Yet, an objective comparison in terms of overall quality and
accuracy of translation between Buçpapaj’s first book The Invisible
Victory, translated into English by (his cousin) Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj,
and Two Sheets of Wind, translated by Freeman is almost unachievable.
There are two different reasons for this: First, both books are products of a
close collaboration between the two translators. Both, however, have
maintained their own style in their respective translations. Second, the art of
translation doesn’t allow translators to have assertion of perfection about
their work, nor, therefore, can the reader have such expectations of the
translators. I must say, though, the background and the experience of each
translator has affected the outcome of each book in different ways. Here is an
example of a stanza, taken from Buçpapaj’s signature poem “The invisible
victory” that happened to be selected and translated by both translators:
The girl giving in
In tall grass
Shrouded only by shadow (Trans. by C. Freeman).
and
Girls gave in
Under the grass
Surrounding tree shadows (Trans. U. Buçpapaj).
A simple trot and a word per word translation of the original
would be: (Getting) defeated/crushed/overcome girls under the grass of the
trees of the shade/shadow give the edge of a more faithful translation to
U. Buçpapaj. Yet the imagery has lost nothing of importance in Freeman’s
version either. A professor of Albanian literature and literary translation,
Ukë Zenl Buçpapaj is an expert in translation theories of the past and an
active participant in the development of the new ideas and methods to improve
the contemporary art and craft of translation. That expertise is obvious in
every poem of his translation in The Invisible Victory. Nevertheless,
filtered through Freeman’s artistic receptiveness, Two Sheets of
Wind more often preserves than loses what Dante called “the glimmer” of
poetry.
And that is a very important phenomenon in literary translation.
To refer once more to Friedrich: “The attitude that the translator displays
toward the individual stylistic characteristics of a work indicates whether the
translator will yield to the original text or conquer it, whether he will stop
at acknowledging the differences between languages or whether he will move
toward a possible rapprochement of styles between languages” (Schulte and
Biguenet 15). Both U. Buçpapaj and Freeman, of course, exemplify Friedrich's
positive meaning in this thought.
It must be mentioned, however, that the poems translated by
Freeman read a little better in English. It could be because, a graduate of
Cornell University, Freeman is a published American author as well as an
itinerant who continuously travels the world—an enduring personal dream that he
started chasing shortly after graduation. Or it could be the fact that Freeman
adds to his craft of translation not only the benefit of being a translated
poet himself—an omnipresent topic of discussion among literary translators and
theorists—but also because he brings to his translations an unparalleled
intercontinental cultural backdrop the results of which are obvious
throughout Two Sheets of Wind. Being born and raised in America and
spending the past three decades of his life in Africa, Asia, and Europe (mostly
in the Balkans) has given him an artistic advantage and an enlightening
cultural ascendancy as a literary translator. His longtime involvement in
diverse cultural and literary circles throughout the world have provided him
with a speedier assessment and more comprehensive understanding of Buçpapaj’s
poetic world in particular and Albanian culture in general.
Whatever the source of his expertise might be, one thing is
for sure: without Freeman, there would be no Two Sheets of Wind. Through
him, Buçpapaj gives us a comforting gift, a sense that poets like him still
place themselves selfishly on the very edge of their lives so they can be
better social observers and more instrumental on behalf of humanity through
their work. Good literary translators are a worthy extension of such a great
cause. After all, “no two literary texts are exactly identical with respect to
the kinds of problems they pose. Each one of them becomes a new field of
investigation for which translators have to design strategies of research”
(Schulte 163). Yet translators continue to find ways to give literature a
second life by directing it toward a greater platform from which it can be
better understood and more accessible. That is the way it should be, because as
one of Buçpapaj’s poems has it, there is:
Not enough time
For Men
For Men
To do good
With that in mind, perhaps
translators promote the authors and works they translate to greater
prominence—a thing of beauty that most of them have yet to achieve for
themselves as translators. In this sense, Freeman’s decision to translate
the Two Sheets of Wind is of great importance. Buçpapaj’s poems truly
deserve to exist in more than one language.
Work Cited
Bucpapaj, M. Two
Sheets of Wind. (C. C. Freeman, Trans.) Unpublished.
Bucpapaj, M.
(2007). The Invisible Victory. Richardson: Marinaj Publishing.
Cohen, R.
(2004). Negotiating Across Culture. Washington, DC: United States
Institue of Peace Press.
Felstiner, J.
(1980). Translating Neruda. Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Landers, E. C.
(2001). Literary Translation: A Practical Guide. Clevedon: Cromwell
Press Ltd.
Samovar, A. L., Porter, E.
R., & McDaniel, R. E. (2007). Intercultural
Communication. Boston: Wadsworth Cengage Learning.
Schulte, R., &
Biguenet, J. (1992). Theories of Translation. Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press.
Shulte, R., & Biguenet,
J. (1989). The Craft of Translation. Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press.
Steiner, G.
(1998). After Babel. Aspects of language and transaltion. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Doctor of Philosophy
The University of Texas at
Dallas awarded Marinaj a PhD in 2012. His dissertation, which focus on the
history and philosophy of oral poetry in the Balkans and
on translation theory, is titled "Oral Poetry
in Albanian and Other Balkan Cultures: Translating the
Labyrinths of Untranslatability."
RUDINA PAPAJANI - ALBANIA
Rudina Papajani was born in
Vlora Albania. She graduated from the Faculty of Public Health and then
attended Master’s studies in General Pathology. The passion for the world of
letters has followed her since childhood. She has written two poetic volumes
“Algat e shpirtit” and “Violinat e shiut.” In her creativity, she deals with
verses about the world of women, social and family gravity, a path she has
followed for over 30 years. She has written in various media both in prose and
poetry. She also deals with various topics of a psychological and philosophical
nature that are constantly published in various media. It was announced at the
end of the year by the newspaper Intervista as “Character of the year”. She has
performed in many events and activities of the artistic word. Rudina Papajani
is known today as a poet who writes not only poetry but also prose, as well as
a performer from Vlora. Recently, her creations have been published in foreign
media.
I'VE BEEN READING YOU...
I read that the field where
you dream every moment,
it's planted and not
released on the surface,
is not lost to grow inside
as innocent,
between the mystery and the
multi-legged world,
there is a red light in the
inner tunnels,
which tremble from the
growth of a creature, with invisible hands.
I am incessantly reading
you, witnessing your unseen struggles,
as you wrestle between
temptation and masculine pride.
That's why I delay to give
you my arms,
my nest that is held in
abeyance, at the red small branches.
I have been reading you for
a long time even in your moments of silence,
and even when you thought
the spring was late,
from invisible rains, from
wordless downpours, that came without knocking,
on a beautiful cloudless
night....
(They say that beautiful
loves
blooming from the sun's
kiss with the earth.
They say...)
OH MAN
Oh man,
you are the unsung hero,
in the paled eyes,
of hollow words.
You are the fire that never
wanes,
in the weathered skin.
You are the destiny of the
smog-filled sky,
stained by human conflict.
You will feel in love with
those shimmering
treasures,
with beautiful eye
and you will be destined to
be consumed
by unquenchable flames.
You will plant and harvest,
amidst uncertainty
and clear skies.
You will always crush the
leaves,
that once danced in
peaceful exhales,
you will walk the paths of
untamed grass,
among the creatures and
whispers released.
Each day you will be
reborn,
beside fresh sprouts,
destined to grow
near your door.
This is how you will live
and die,
in hues and settings,
in chaotic times and
destinies...
ERROR...
The mistake was born one
day,
when the soul was
wounded,
when conscience was
silent,
and the guilt remained a
sinner.
The mistake had no
age,
it lived long,
whenever people
cried,
it returned
victorious.
The mistake had no tears,
a gentle nature and
soul,
how often did it
hurt,
it made the conscience as
hard as stone.
Prepared: Angela Kosta
Executive Director of MIRIADE Magazine, Academic, journalist, writer, poet,
essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, promoter
جملة من خواطر
بقلم
فرزانة دري
إيران - الدنمرك
(1) A phrase
from thoughts. By Farzaneh Dorri (Iran/Denmark)
How little I
know
when I open
the window
and watch
the wind
dancing with
the willow.
At the sea:
The boat is tossing
on the waves
Some watch
it
some paint
it
some are
waiting for it on the shore
some are
busy piercing holes in its bottom
And some… close their eyes.
(2) The
world and me. By Farzaneh Dorri (Iran/Denmark)
Each day
the world
with all its
impregnated impulses
engulfs me
like a newly
inspired poem
and I
immerse silently
in its warm
embrace.
And love
walks hand
in hand with me
through all
moments
and licks
my wounded
words.
(3) Sound of
silence. By Farzaneh Dorri (Iran/Denmark)
A scream in
the twilight
the eagle
catches its prey
I hear the
sound
Wind knocks
over trees
waves move
the stones of the beach
the storm
makes landfall
Today's
inner peace
echoes in
the mind
when the
night comes
Read my
thoughts
when you
seek silence
get to know
me
Read my
heart's haiku
to dampen
the noise
it is
silence from within.
Biography:
Farzaneh
Dorri was born in Iran, and lives in Copenhagen. She has worked as employment
advisor and case manager in municipalities of Vestegn county in the last 17
years.
Farzaneh
Dorri is the Pentasi World Poet Laureate (2024). She is winner of International
Award of Excellence "City of Galateo-Antonio De Ferraris” XI Edition for
her poem "In your footsteps, Victor", that express the values of
peace and legality. She is one of the "50 Most Memorable Women" &
one of the "Global Giants of Culture" based on her continuous work as
a translator and bridge-builder between cultures across different countries,
and her works, characterized by a profound reflection on the human condition
and universal values.
Her poetry
has appeared in Italian, American, Albanian, and Arabic Magazines.
She
considers poetry as a fine art and creative process, that contribute to the
community of humanity. She is member of three international poetry club in
Greece, New Delhi and Shanghai.
Christine Chen, a New Zealand writer, poet,
translator, and newspaper editor, won the prestigious 30th Italian Ossi di
Seppia Award for Best Foreign Writer in 2023. Her works have been translated
into nearly 20 languages and are housed in esteemed institutions such as the
Royal Library of Belgium and the University of Rome. She currently serves as a
committee member of the World Poetry Movement, the Oceania coordinator, an ambassador
for the UN-registered Writer Capital International Foundation, and the
President of Oceania for the International Chamber of Writers & Artists
(CIESART). Her latest book, “Has the Flower Bloomed?” (Chinese-Italian), was
published in January 2025.
Ode to Spring
1
The Beginning of Spring
One blossom after another,
One after another is plucked—yet never
exhausted.
The hibiscus takes the spring as its backing.
Grass spreads endlessly, growing wild,
Taking the vast earth as its backing,
unrestrained.
Birds, butterflies, and bees pour out from
their nests,
Roaming the mountains and drifting through
clouds,
Taking the sky as their backing, free and
unbound.
Barefoot, I walk upon the hillside,
Spring light bursts forth—warblers fly, grass
thrives......
All around are my backing.
Note：
Lichun(The beginning of Spring) is the first
of the 24 solar terms in the lunar calendar, marking the beginning of a new
year.
2
Gold and Stone Yield
—Written during the Lunar New Year of 2025
For so many years,
I buried myself in books, bowed my head to write,
and set off on the road with my backpack.
Until, roads unfolded beneath my feet,
words raced onto paper,
golden houses slipped out of books
and settled onto my little plot of land—
where beauty resides.
A boundless clear sky—
a bluebird carries away drifting clouds,
all the blues kneel before the lake at my door.
Water droplets pierce through stone,
and seeds swept along by the current
bloom upon the rocks.
Oh, fate arrives unbidden—
gold and stone yield, revealing
a brand-new spring!
3
A new cycle turns,
the planet bathed in endless spring,
mountains stretching far—
life and death, ceaseless.
Step by step, we walk,
into sunrise, toward sunset.
I climb high, you take your first steps,
I descend, you drift far away.
Our roles reverse.
You step into a fate neither good nor bad.
Dusk falls—
I can no longer see you clearly.
The river flows on,
birds come and go with the spring.
From a child’s lips, ancestors’ names take flight—
life and death, rise and fall,
handed down.
Oh, my love, after a century of solitude,
you deliver an unyielding game.
Gabriella Picerno, psychologist, pedagogue, sexologist.
Passionate about photography and painting. Author of numerous publications of
psychological and pedagogical essays. She writes novels and poems. Her lyrics
have been translated into seven languages and published in 15 countries. She is
involved in training activities for teachers and parents. She carries out
clinical activities with adults, adolescents and children, concerning school
distress, learning and relationship disorders, separation and divorce issues.
Director of the Mille Abbracci series for Pav Edizioni and co-director of the
Filo di Arianna series for GD Edizioni. Curator of the literary awards: La
Botteguccia delle Favole, Lo Zaino Raccontastorie.
Francia Square
In a winter evening you were waiting for me
inbetween dusk as the daylight was almost
over the horizon
and a light wind was shaking pine needles
gently.
I got out of the car
whilst you were coming towards me
with your surprised pace,
alone for the first time,
from our laborious worlds.
Sitting in your car
a sort of pleasantness assaulted me,
like the candour of soft cotton
wrapping me
and made that little embarassement vanish
which had arisen as I was getting close to you.
Bright wet eyes
I saw those eyes
completely pervaded by blinding light
where I mirrored without veils.
I still have them inside of me,
hidden in a secret place of my body,
where noone can get in.
Beyond the infinity of that look,
your happiness
the one I gave you
the one we could breathe
like vital oxygen.
It was a propulsive rocky force
silence as total satisfaction,
enchantment of body
and soul,
wide blossomed
and scented horizon.
Life in life.
Mirages
In nobody else’s heart
can I enter.
I still feel
only
your fingers
lightly touching
my skin,
getting into
my thoughts.
All other roads
are desert
with no floreal scents.
Only you
like a mirage
appear
but now I can’t see you
anymore.
Part of a novel
Tears on the sidewalk of departure
For the Iraqi novelist
Abdul Zahra Amara
(1)
Harith
stood on the factory's threshold, contemplating the rusty iron gate as if it
were the mouth of time, sucking him into a future he had never dreamed of. He
tucked his certificate into his inner pocket, folded like a broken wing, afraid
to take it out and see his disappointment embodied on useless paper.
He
looked at his fingers, which had once dreamed of embracing complex engines and
making their mark on the world of advanced machinery. But now, smeared with old
grease, they were nestled between the rough teeth of the gears, as if to
console them for their ceaseless rotation.
He
passed by the workers, one of them raised his head from under an old truck, his
face was covered in oil, but he smiled:
-Welcome to the mill of days, here there is no
difference between the dreamer and the despairing, everyone is at the mercy of
rust!-
Harith
smiled weakly, as if refusing to believe his feet had ever set foot in this
place, but he continued walking. This factory was nothing but a cold prison,
its bars not made of iron, but of the shattered remains of dreams. The air here
carried the scent of hot iron and the sweat of bitter struggle.
The
supervisor, a man in his sixties with years of age on his face like the furrows
of a thirsty earth, approached him and stared at Harith with eyes that were
experts at testing newcomers:
—-You're new? What were you doing before you
came here?-
Harith
raised his head, as if searching for an answer worthy of his past, but he found
only broken words:
— -I was studying… I was aspiring…-
The
supervisor laughed roughly:
—-Does ambition feed? Here, the gears will not
ask about your degree, but about the strength of your hand. Are you ready?-
Harith
shook his head silently, then reached into the toolbox, feeling its weight as
if it bore all the doors that had been closed in his face. He sighed deeply,
then dived into the machine, fiddling with its screws as if searching among
them for something that had been stolen from him.
Mechanics
was his science, his dream, his passion... but here it had become just his
daily bread, which he traded for his sweat, and whenever his eyes caught the
reflection of his face on a shiny metal surface, they saw in it the shadow of a
boy who dreamed of being an engineer... not a worker.
He
felt his heart beating fast, and hope flowed through his veins like a rushing
river after rain. He knew this job was just the beginning, but despite its
apparent simplicity, it was a bridge to achieving his dream.
His
nights at the factory were filled with struggle, as he treated the machines
like a farmer treats the land, watering it with effort and devoting his time
and sweat to it. The annoying sound of the machines in the factory would
interfere with his thoughts, but he endured, because behind that sound were
promises to be fulfilled.
Every
time he returned home, his face would glow despite his fatigue, and his eyes
would hold the promise of better days ahead. In those moments, his mother, with
her eyes that saw beyond words, knew that her son was beginning to write a new
chapter in his life, and the words that came out of her lips carried nothing
but prayers for patience and success.
The
father, tired of working in the shade, would look at Harith with eyes filled
with pride, but also with concern and hidden love. He would
sometimes say to him, as if it were a commandment passed down through the ages:
"Work faithfully, for the land that gives you today will yield you harvest
tomorrow."
Thus,
Harith began his journey in the world of work, armed with dreams and
determination, climbing the steps of life like a towering mountain, determined
to be a strong, fruitful tree in a world that needs a lot of giving.
(2)
Two
years passed, like flowers in spring, blooming in times of effort and
perseverance. Those two years were like pages written with the sweat of a
farmer, paving the path of life, facing challenges like a knight facing the
harsh winds in an endless battle. Despite the hardship, sweat trickled from his
forehead like drops of dew in the early morning. But in the end, like a river
flowing after a long thirst, he saved enough money to take another step toward
his dream.
In
a quiet moment, Harith stood in front of his mother, his heart dancing between
the letters of the words he wanted to say.
-Mom... I want to settle down, I want to look
for a life partner, someone who will fill the house with love and share in
building the future with me. The words fell on his heart like rain on thirsty
ground, so the thoughts bore fruit in his heart and he began to look forward to
a new tomorrow.
Umm
Harith, like any mother, was carrying a mixture of hope and anxiety, as she set
out to find the girl who was fit to be his other half.
She looked at her son with tenderness and a
desire to help him, and looked around her, surrounded by family and neighbors,
her heart beating quickly like someone searching for a pearl in the depths of
the sea.
Then
came a day when light came in the form of an idea, and I found the girl who
looked like flowers in a distant garden. Her name was Magda, a kind and
beautiful girl, and beauty scattered across her face like the sun scattered
across the dew in the early morning. She was from a simple family, but they
were kind like fresh water in a deep well, and she lived her life with love and
purity, carrying from this world only what satisfied the soul.
The
mother told her son about Majida, and Harith's eyes shone with a glimpse of
hope. He didn't have the kind of money in his hand that poets sing about, but
he held true love in his heart and a yearning to build a life filled with
nothing but hope and respect.
Harith
said:
-Mom, do you think she'll be the woman to
share this life with us?
His
mother answered him wisely:
-My son, Magda is not like others. She is a
girl who carries kindness in her heart and knows how to live simply with love
and care. She does not seek wealth in money, but in her heart, and you will
find that what she needs is a sense of security and reassurance.
In
a spontaneous meeting between Harith and Majida, the words between them were
like waves breaking on the shore, each one creating an impact on the other.
Magda
spoke in a calm voice, as if her melodies were soothing the sea in Harith's
heart, while he listened with eyes that
offered him a new vision of life.
He
said to her:
-Magda, I am a simple man... I don't have a
lot of money, but I promise you that I will give you all the love and care in
my heart.
She
answered him, looking at him with eyes full of hope:
You
don't need money to be rich, true wealth is in love and patience, and if you
deserve me, I'm here.
Their
conversation was like a soothing song in harmony with the wind, each word
weaving threads of hope into their hearts, and each moment igniting a spark of
deep understanding. In those moments, Harith was certain he had found a partner
who didn't need money, but rather a heart that beats with honesty and the
patience that brings dreams to life.
Thus,
a new journey began for Harith, a journey of constant hope, as he found in
Magda everything he was looking for. She wasn't just a wife, but a friend with
whom he shared life, with all its challenges and dreams. With each passing day,
Harith's conviction grew stronger that true love is not measured by what a
person possesses, but by what they give in their heart.
(3)
The
first months of Harith and Majida's marriage passed like spring in a lush
garden, as their life grew and flourished, thriving with love and tenderness.
But as time passed, something strange began to happen at the heart of their
relationship, something invisible yet tangible, like weeds growing in fields
without warning, something that slipped through their grasp without them
noticing at first.
Magda gradually began to drift away from the embrace of
home, and Harith noticed that her place in the house was becoming more and more
empty, as if her laughter, which used to fill the space, had left. At first,
she would only go to her parents' house for a couple of days, returning as if
her absence had never occurred, but as the days passed, those visits became
more frequent, as if she had begun to find in her family's visits something
that would
compensate for the emptiness that had begun to nest in her heart.
Every
time she was gone, Harith felt an uncomfortable weight on his chest, something
like a cold wind blowing through the pages of his book, making him lose focus.
He didn't know the reason behind her sudden departure, or what made his heart
clench every time he returned home, only to find the house devoid of Magda's
warmth, as if he had returned to a cold place after a long journey in the
desert.
Hammered Endings, a short
story by Moroccan writer Hassan Ajbouh
hammered ends
Written by
Moroccan writer
Hassan answered him
Death has a foul, sultry smell that hastens my formation
like snowflakes that swell in size as they descend to the depths of exile. I
search, as the clock ticks, for something to cover my burning nakedness... for
fear of scandal... The successive knocks on the door besiege my reverie and
penetrate my brain, which is about to explode, searching for an outlet among
the sounds to bury my innocent nakedness...
- It's an earthquake! Hurry up and escape before the
walls collapse.
- Guys, let's break down the door.
The voices of hypocritical women numb my feelings, and
adrenaline surges through my veins, feeding my crippled body and turning it
into a treachery that swallows all the bodies that collude before it...
- Oh, this stubborn fate! Why didn’t it give me a few
moments to complete my attacks and drain the swamp of sins surrounding my
memory!!
These women, hiding behind the door in their black robes,
I see them concealing their gloating over my death. To them, I am nothing but a
distorted doll, an intruder into the town, captivating the eyes of their youth and
making their old men salivate, so that the threads of affection are cut and the
masks of monotony are exposed.
I try with all my might to remove this boulder from my
leg, struggling with pain and scandal.. Drops of sweat mingle with the flows of
red liquid and the vibrations of what remains of the walls.. The disgusting
sounds fade away and with them, a groaning rattle continues beside me.. Should
I suppress it? It must be buried alive to complete the count of bodies that I
have secretly buried under the roof of the basement.. This fornicating jurist
who always claimed chastity and sufficiency, his sinful soul is now in my
hands.. I must get rid of him and silence this rattle, and let's say that the
earthquake did its deed and went with it to its Creator! With my right hand, I
carried the remains of some stone that fell from the ceiling and began to knock
on this fake face that reminds me of men.. All the men who wanted to violate my
flesh met the same fate..
But what will I do after this is over? My secret will be
exposed and those women will realize the fate of their husbands and sons whose
skeletons line the basement! (They thought) that they had migrated to the city!
I must escape before it's too late and... I try to gather
my naked body and push away the rock sitting on my knee... but I can't do
anything... The tremors keep coming, and with them my pulses are tossed about
and accelerate, and the inevitable fate is approaching...
I turn my face towards him, disgusted
by his stained appearance. I feel the rubble beside me, the dust, the dirt, the
pieces of glass... Lightly and gracefully, I plant the piece with my hand,
sparks of blood fly, covering the noise spreading in the place, and with it
comes a silence that I have not enjoyed since I set foot in this town.
Done
Hassan answered him
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The Hidden Dimensions of
the Marvelous in “The Legend of Squirrel” by Dr. Mohamed Bashir Bouijra -
Algeria
The Hidden Dimensions of the Marvelous in “The Legend of
Squirrel” To the writer
By the Algerian writer: Turkiya Loucif
Written by
Dr. Mohamed Bashir Bouijra - Algeria
The
critical system has asserted that the creative text, whatever its artistic
genre, is not created from a vacuum and nothingness, but rather the necessity
of forming its first genes is found embedded in the depths of that great resort
of visions and ideas and of the suggestive/imaginary concerns in the groves of the
being of its creator. Perhaps that is what made artistic creations of all kinds
refuse synonymy, imitation and similarity..
Critics
of these artistic, cognitive and aesthetic fields have also emphasized that
their creators always strive to gather the fragments of what has stuck in their
conscience and around the margins of their dazzling and distinguished lives in
every way, to hover around it with excavation and quarrel, with the aim of
revealing the components of the formations of what dazzles and what is beyond
comprehension and then beyond imagination. And according to these references,
scholars and critics differed about revealing the essence of the motives and
instincts of these creative women..
Under
the microscope of these two angles, I found myself reading the text “The Legend
of Sanjani” by the journalist and writer “Turkiya Loucif” published by “Dar
Tadelakt” in the second half of 2016. It is a text that begins with the
following paragraph: “It is night, and the king, who has reached extreme old
age, is awaiting the return of his son, the commander of the soldiers, from the
battle..p. 6” and ends with the paragraph that says: “..and we disappeared from
sight, and I was thinking of returning again to search for my mother…..p. 48“
To
begin with, I would like to point out that the writer has worked hard to fit
the text into stories intended for children from the first paragraph to the
last, both in terms of the narrative furnishings of the characters and the
events, as she bestowed upon both elements a great deal of wonder and magic,
whether in the actions and behaviors or in the formal material/semiological
structures. This is what makes me suggest that the text be read in its two
parts: the childlike part with all its characteristics and features that suit
this category of readers, and I also see no objection to the text being read
symbolically, from which adults can benefit..
A -
Components of the childish, miraculous narrative furnishing:
The
first traces of these components are evident in the cover painting, which shows
a huge squirrel in a state of anger, with redness surrounding it on all sides,
in front of a castle with a very old architecture overlooking a raging sea
shore, with an excessive use of colors; black, gunpowder, and brown, which
indicate that an explosion has already occurred or will occur soon. These
structures, drawings, and colors, all of which suggest a frightening and
terrifying image, will undoubtedly affect a child’s taste at first glance/from
the cover image of the text..
When
we begin to enter the worlds of the text through its miraculous hints, we
encounter a group of characters with mythical components and dimensions
represented by:
The
old, just, and benevolent king, whom the devil hated so much that she devoted
all her strength and evil to fighting him..
The
devil/ Faustica and the vices of the people that follow her/ the false ruler
and his son, whose first concern was to eliminate the king and control the
castle.
Prince/Crown
Prince "Bishamruka/Squirrel" who turns into a huge squirrel when he
feels danger.
- Toto, who was a strong support for
“Bishamroka/Squirrel”.“
The
white bird flying.
They
are the main characters in furnishing the events of “The Legend of Squirrel”,
which can be summarized as follows: There was a “castle” whose inhabitants
lived in security, peace and happiness until they were controlled by demons led
by “the demon/Fostika”, who vowed to take the kingship of the castle from its
original “king/ruler”. Battles broke out between them until she won, so she
quickly exiled the original king of the castle to an unknown remote place. Then
she threw the commander of the castle, the king’s son, with his pregnant wife,
“Bishamruka”, into one of the dense forests where there was a fisherman. Then
suddenly a huge bear attacks them and devours the commander, while his wife and
her pregnancy escape. As the days pass, a romantic relationship develops
between the squirrel nicknamed “Shamroka” and a beautiful girl, “Toto.” Their
efforts become complicated around searching for the grandfather, the original
king of the castle. During this search, a group of narrative patterns and
aesthetic furnishings of the text come together, represented in the overlap of
times/past, present, and future, as well as in the intertextuality of a large
group of spatial spaces such as “Death Valley,” “A Place of Darkness,” “Ancient
Castle,” “The Lands of the Sun,” and “The Seventh Oasis.”" Sand
dunes in the desert" and many more.
In
this way, the narrative events intertwine under the influence of
imagination/fantasy worthy of giving the text a special flavor in the imaginary
worlds of children, until we reach an end in which “Bishamroka and Toto”
triumph over all the plans of the devil and her assistants when they succeed in
finding the place where the king is imprisoned, so they bring him out and treat
him until he regains his fighting strength and fights the son of the fake ruler
and triumphs over him..
= The miraculous
load in the text:
The
text is replete, perhaps even exaggerated, with the drawing of the features of
the fantastic/imaginary, which may help the reader to produce the idea, or
ideas, that he draws himself under the urgency of the components of his
imaginative instincts, especially among the category of children, and the
fantastic formulas have touched all the narrative components such as::
1- The fantastic
characters in the text such as “the devil/Fostika who used to transform into
strange forms such as burning flames, flying, the ability to throw and hurl and
other actions and movements that a normal person is unable to do. Then comes
the character of “Bishamroka/called Sanjabi” who used to transform into a huge
squirrel when he felt danger and flew carrying the girl “Toto” on top of him.
Then comes the white bird that flies “Toto” to long distances when necessary
such as bringing “varieties of garlic” from Palestine..
2- The wonder of
spaces; places and times:
And
they are very many and varied, such as the dark places starting with the castle
and its corridors, then the valleys, the valleys, the deserts, the darkness of
the nights, the towering mountains; wooded and barren, the seventh oasis, the
scorching sun, the castle of evil, and many others. Then that multiplicity and
strange intersection of times when we read between now and then “The she-devil
was talking about evil through time..p. 35”, “..a long time passed..p. 20”,
“..to carry them to the future time..p. 10″,“..the present
time..p. 11”, “..an opening overlooking time in a blurry way..p. 11”, “..and I
was banished to a time other than my time..p. 28”, “..I will travel to the
future time..p. 9“
3- The
miraculousness of events/actions:
And
they are many and varied as well, especially from “Fostika” who used to show
her disgusting nature, shaking the mountain and turning it into a glowing mass
of fire..p. 9, “..the ruler’s challenge to her provoked her, so she carried him
in the blink of an eye to the farthest reaches of the desert and penetrated
with him into the depths, then she came out trembling and flew into space...p.
9“
In
response to the strange and bizarre actions of the devil, we find “Bishomarka”
also when he “…wanted to destroy the castle of evil, so he ate the nutmeg,
transformed, and jumped into the river. He was very agitated, so he hit the
boat with his tail, so it rose into the sky and then fell again into the depths
of the deep river, so everyone in it perished. He cut the ropes with his
protruding tooth, and he was uprooting the castle from its foundation and
pushing it into the deep river… Then the giant stopped in front of me, so I
felt terrified. Then he carried me in his hand and put me on his back, so I
clung to his thick hair, and he started jumping and jumping at the speed of the
seventh oasis.. p. 36“
In
addition to these extraordinary and irrational behaviors and actions, the
reader of “The Legend of Sanjanbi” finds predatory animals that attack humans
without mercy or compassion, such as that huge bear that “suddenly pounced on
the father and tore him into scattered pieces… p. 13.” And other images and
constructions characterized by wonder and strangeness, which further immerses
the text in the twists and turns of the reader’s imaginative map..
B -
The symbolic dimensions of the components of the situation / for the great
reader:
It
appears from all the components of the narrative structure of “The Legend of
Squirrel” that it is creative for the category of children readers according to
some of what we have briefly indicated, but that does not prevent the reader
category in general from finding in it many symbolic references to examining
the situation and the general situation in the whole world and in the Arab and
Islamic worlds in particular, and that is when the writer symbolized all of
that with the intertextuality of the two paragraphs that say: “..the towering
Tassili Mountains where the castle of love is located, its people are kind and
shepherds, their houses are spread here and there, and the noise of goats and
the laughter of children and the crowds of women returning with clay water jars
decorated with the colors of life, are features of daily life… The king used to
spend his time in those mountains, he wakes up early and rides his horse,
carrying the bow on his shoulders to hunt birds of prey and returns with them
to the castle, bandages their wounds and invites the children of the flock to
attend their release again into space and says: We are a brave and free people,
and the children repeat this sentence after him… and it was Falcons and eagles
flutter and flutter and then return and land on the king’s shoulders… p. 8″.
The
continuity of the narrative system of this paragraph, which represents an
extension of the text in general, as if it symbolically indicates that the
“fortress” that the “devil” wants to destroy is Algeria, as it is a beloved and
seductive space that the forces of evil, injustice and tyranny have conspired
against and are still working to destroy, starting from the year 1830 to the
attempt to isolate the Sahara from Algeria in the “Evian” talks, passing through
the years of embers and the “Tigantourine” events, and arriving at what is
being plotted now against Algeria in the Sahel region..
This
is confirmed by the fact that the text contains many references that indicate
this, such as:
The
paragraph that says: “…A young man and a young woman came from the land of
Africa who possessed the wisdom of immortality. Anyone who refused to die had
to pay a box of gold coins. The news spread among the people… p. 39.” Of
course, the paragraph can be interpreted as suggestive and symbolic, by
removing death from its conventional connotation to a suggestive connotation,
which is “immortality through actions and immortal stances, such as those that
Algeria has always taken throughout its glorious history, as it belongs to the
African heartland, especially in recent times.”.
The
paragraph that says: ..Then a squirrel climbed one of the palm trees and threw
a bunch of dates from which honey was dripping. We quickly regained our energy
and he said, “The name of this date is Deglet Nour, and Algeria is known for it
more than any other country.” p. 37“
The
third paragraph, which we find in the shot of Toto’s travel on the “white bird”
to “Palestine” to bring “sixty types of garlic” in order to treat an epidemic
bite to “Bishamroka” from a huge rat, when the paragraph says: “..my bird
landed on the Nablus hill to rest a little, and enjoy my eyes with the beauty
of Palestinian nature… p. 41”, confirms that there is an eternal, sacred
relationship between Algeria and Palestine, Algeria, one of whose presidents
said: “..we are Palestine, oppressor or oppressed…” and which Algeria is still
the only country that declares and defends Palestine..
From
these paragraphs and others, it seems to me that it is easy for every reader to
extract the symbolic dimensions of the state of Algeria throughout history; a
state that has been besieged by the forces of evil and hatred, either from
demons in their hatred of everything good related to humanity, or from their
servants, such as “the ruler whose mistress is the devil in charge of the
castle” after the expulsion of its original king. I also find in the paragraph
said by “Tuto” before the son of the false ruler of the castle, which
represents “the homeland,” duels “Jedd” with Shamroka/the crown prince of the
castle: “..the ruler calls for immortality, and we have come from the lands of
Africa, where no ruler dies, and in order for this to be achieved, he only has
to duel this old man… p. 44.” The affirmation of the existence of immortality
in Africa, according to the paragraph, is not arbitrary, but rather represents
a historical fact when Africa, with its wealth and youth, has continued to
provide life and economy to all Western colonial regimes until now; in other
words, Africa grants it the continuity of life and the perpetual brilliance at
the expense of impoverishing its people and burning its lands..
There
is no doubt that the presence of all these diverse furnishings within the
narrative structure of the writer, who is a distinguished media professional,
did not come to her in this way randomly, but rather I strongly believe that
they are the bearer of a set of precise and very specific messages regarding
the rules of spreading national culture within the rich and diverse memory of
the Algerian nation for the reader of both types: children in the form of the
first paragraph and adults in the second form..
According
to all of this, the word “castle” can refer to Algeria, and the king to the
“national consciousness” that the colonizers tried to deny and remove from the
land of Algeria, but despite all of that, “Chamorca and Toto” would emerge from
the jungle and from nothingness to bring it back and establish it in its
homeland, Algeria..
I
find all of this in harmony with the ideological burden that the writer
“Turkiya Loucif” carries and believes in; an ideology that I found disseminated
in everything she writes and in what she creates, dedicated primarily to
children; theatre, short stories, and activation of this age group, which we
always consider the true nursery for preserving the dignity of the homeland and
defending its honor..
And after that I say that these lines slipped out
voluntarily while I was reading the text “The Legend of Squirrel” and they
necessarily do not do justice to the text and do not cover everything it
contains. I also believe that what I saw in the text is a personal opinion that
may not agree or harmonize with others. In any case, I wish the media writer
“Turkiya Loucif” a bright future in the narrative and media worlds..
All Colors by: Mona Fathy
Hamed - Egypt
All
colors
Mona
Fathy Hamed - Egypt
In
all colors
I
drew you in my heart
dewdrop,
pomegranate seed
Of
all colors
I
felt your kindness
I
felt your feelings
I
wrote poems, I wrote poetry
About
all colors
I
wrote, I sent
I
missed you and waited
Days
followed by months and years
I
endured, I was patient
I
was hurt by silence
I
contemplate the echo of the journey of forgetting
Maybe
it's colors
caresses
your heart
Dance
your feelings
Not
a day or a night was left unsaid
I
promised to write to you
I
describe to you from my heart
Rose
lover, dream come true
The structure of the text
and its three parties (a critical reading of the text *Third Party* by the
Egyptian writer: Metwally Basal) by the writer and critic: Mohamed El-Banna
Text
structure and its three parts
A critical
reading by Mohamed El-Banna of the text *Third
Party* By the Egyptian writer, Metwally Basal, who won
third place in the short story competition of the International Union of Arab
Intellectuals and whose board chair is Sheikha Nawal Al-Hamoud Al-Sabah, and
Dr. Engineer Khaled Al-Nabulsi, the official sponsor of the competition
and the General Manager of the Union.Magdy Shaisha; Head
of the Arbitration Committee. Ms. Kanana Issa; General Coordinator
AAsima Ibrahim, Competition Director, Mohamed El-Banna
The story
third party
I didn't sleep, and
surprisingly, the neighbor's dog didn't sleep either! It kept barking all
night; but it wasn't just a normal bark; it was howling like a wolves! Maybe it
saw the Angel of Death entering my apartment that night..
Until now, I can't believe
what happened. I wish I hadn't listened to her, I wish I hadn't obeyed her! I
spent the whole night crying until my tears ran out, screaming from the bottom
of my heart until my voice, stifled in my ribs, became hoarse, trying to save
her; to bring her back to life; but it had happened! Maybe if I had called the
ambulance, she would have been saved. She needed someone to help her; but I was
afraid. She herself, before losing consciousness, refused to resort to the
ambulance or go to the hospital!
However, I am sure that she
is dead. It is true that I am not educated, as she used to say, and I did not
obtain a higher degree, as she used to say! But I have experienced the school
of life, and I have gone through things and experiences that people in school
know nothing about. I once saw a man die in his car after he went out to buy a
pack of cigarettes! As soon as he returned to the car, opened the pack, put the
cigarette in his mouth, and lit it, he froze in place! He had locked the door;
so we spent a while trying to open the door to get his body out. His eyes were
open and bulging, as if he had seen what we had not seen.!
Once again, in the workshop
where I was working, the teacher was sitting on his palm frond chair. Suddenly,
the hookah fell from his hand. When my colleague went to help him, he found him
frozen in place, not moving, and his eyes open and not blinking! We did so much
that we slapped him in the face more than once, and he still didn't move. If he
were alive, he would have hung us all upside down like sacrificial lambs.!
My beloved wife is dead, I
am sure she is dead; and the neighbor's dog, as evidence, howled. That was not
the barking I heard! It has never barked like that since we have lived in this
cursed apartment.!
What can I say? No one will
believe me; everyone will think I killed her. It's their chance they've been
waiting for; it's handed to them on a silver platter.!
All night I kept circling
around myself until I got tired, and from the intensity of exhaustion I slept
next to her dead body! I married her for love, although I knew that our
marriage was unequal; I am just a simple craftsman, I can barely read and
write, while she is a university graduate; she has a higher degree; she is
beautiful; and an employee who provides for the house, I mean helps me... No...
No.. The truth is that since the workshop closed, she has become the one
who pays the house bills; she pays me, as they say.. Damn them all; they envy
me for her. They are devils who seek to destroy homes.!
Despite all that, and
despite all the problems that used to erupt between us, she loved me, and I was
madly in love with her, despite the fact that a third party came between us
because of which I almost divorced her more than once. She was more passionate
about him than she was about me; she sat with him
more than with me, she accompanied him everywhere, she consulted him on every
little and big thing, and when I objected, she made excuses about my lack of
education! I began to accept his presence among us despite the feeling that two
large horns were growing on the sides of my head, and whenever I looked in the
mirror, I would look stealthily for fear of seeing them, and I began to get
used to it after it became clear to me that everyone was also in love with him.
He is the one whose youth is regretted, called Google.!
On that fateful night, I
was surprised to see her writhing and screaming, she was sick. I suggested that
I take her to the hospital, and I wanted to call an ambulance, but she refused
vehemently, and explained to me that all hospitals were infected. I found her
writing down her feelings and sending them to Google, and how quickly it
responded! After reading the symptoms she sent, he wrote her a complete list of
the necessary medications, including an injection. And because Mr. Google's
words mean orders, he sent me to get her the medicine from the nearby pharmacy,
then he stuck the tip of the injection in her arm. I wish she hadn't! Only a
few minutes later, I saw her convulsing before my eyes, then I saw her pupils
rolling, before they froze and stopped forever. I tried in every way to wake
her up, but she was already dead... Damn Google! My calamity is great, and not
only in the death of my beloved wife, the greater calamity is that they will
accuse me of killing her! Who will I ask as a martyr?! Should I ask for the
testimony of the neighbor's dog that kept barking all night in fear of the
Angel of Death, or should I ask for the testimony of Google, which always tried
to separate us until it succeeded and deprived me of it?!
The night ended, and the
eternal night of my life began; more than a year has passed; a black year that
erased all my life that I lived before, so that I no longer remember a single
moment of happiness that I lived, as I bleed the hours that remain for me
behind bars! They say that all the evidence is against me; all the proof and
evidence say that I killed my beloved wife! And so they sentenced her to death
for the presence of premeditation, flowery words whose meaning I do not
understand! But what concerns me now is when will they carry out the sentence!
Perhaps they will carry it out tonight; here is the sound of the neighbor’s dog
howling echoing in my ears again!
Metwally Basal
Egypt
***********
critical reading
***********
* Narrative
ingenuity
After reading this text, I
asked myself why a text like this won an advanced position in a fierce
competition with other texts that were distinguished from it by modernity and
post-modernism, and distinguished from it by the freshness of the idea and
plot, despite the freshness of its idea as well, there is no dispute about
that, as the employment of the third party here was a skillful and very
intelligent employment. I did not see in all of the above a basic support for the
distinction of the text, despite it - the employment - being one of its actual
pillars... So, as a critic, I had to search for the source of brilliance that
formed a basic lever for this deserved superiority, and I found it... yes, I
found it looking at me with its cheerful smile, "This is me... Do you see
me?" I saw him with tears streaming from his eyes like ink on paper, tears
that he tried to hide behind his smile, and a sigh of oppression that he
struggled to suppress in his chest, if it weren’t for the howling of the
neighbor’s dog, that dog that accompanied him from the beginning and then
concluded the text of his story, so that I saw in it a second party, while the
wife, the teacher, and the driver came as secondary characters to establish the
narrative structure. The narrative flow is full of the elegance of movements
that are technically amazing; employing, and what is meant by this employment
here is the spatio-temporal nature of the three events mentioned in the text.
* The
idea
A fresh idea that raised
the text from the realistic level to the level of modern realism, in addition
to the passing employment of mythology; pessimism about the barking of dogs at
night, based on a societal heritage that it is a harbinger of death, to see the
dog, the angel of death, approaching the place.
* Narrative
processing
The writer relied on the
accepted obfuscation of the third party, which he chose as the title of the
text, and then began to reveal it directly, and he quickly moved to the
technique of free association - one of the techniques of the narrative
stream of consciousness - as a justification for his certainty of his
wife's sudden death, as he cited two incidents, both of which ended in what is
called sudden death..
The use of the dog barking
at night at the beginning and end of the text is a semiotic indication of the
approaching date of his execution ..
* The
plot
- The
plot - in my opinion - was marred by a flaw in the chronological arrangement of
the narrative, as the text began in the present tense (I did not sleep, and
strangely enough, the neighbor’s dog did not sleep either! He kept barking all
night; but he did not bark normally; he howled like wolves! Perhaps he saw the
Angel of Death entering my apartment that night.).. I did not sleep / He did
not sleep / He kept barking all night, then at the end of the paragraph he
included (He enters my apartment that night) which is a sentence that is almost
a saving grace, but I did not find it sufficient, and the most correct way to
correct the narrative time - from my point of view - is to say (I did not sleep
that night) .
* Language
and style
It was successful and
completely appropriate to the idea of the text, and fluently expressed what
was intended to be conveyed to the reader, in a graceful, flowing style that
was not devoid of self-mockery and laughter shrouded in tears..
* Narrative
discourse
- Social
inequality is usually a strong obstacle to the continuation of a marriage of
this type.
The
danger of being confined to the cave of the one-eyed screen, and what it
has caused and is causing in terms of the disintegration of family members
under one roof, but they are as if they are on isolated islands, indeed they
are on isolated islands in reality, not metaphorically.!
* finally
Heartfelt congratulations
to you, Mr. Metwally Basal, and special congratulations for your beautiful
text, which I consider a step on the right path, in which you were able to
skillfully control the threads of your text and move them with the brilliance
of a skilled director..
Muhammad al-Banna / Cairo,
March 15, 2025
Omatee
Ann Marie Hansraj
WORLD POETRY DAY:
CELEBRATING THE POWER OF VERSE
Every year on March
21st, the world comes together to celebrate World Poetry Day, a day dedicated
to the power of poetic expression. Established by UNESCO in 1999, this day
recognizes poetry as a form of cultural and linguistic heritage, emphasizing
its ability to inspire, educate, and unite people across borders.
WHY POETRY MATTERS
Poetry has been a
fundamental part of human civilization for centuries. From the ancient epics of
Homer and Virgil to the revolutionary works of Shakespeare, Rumi, Tagore,
Neruda, and Maya Angelou, poetry has shaped societies, challenged norms, and
given voice to the deepest human emotions. Whether through love sonnets,
political verses, or spiritual reflections, poetry captures the essence of
human experience.
In today’s fast-paced
world, poetry remains a powerful medium for self-expression and social change.
Spoken word poetry, slam poetry, and digital poetry have gained popularity,
bringing poetry to new audiences and making it more accessible than ever
before.
How World Poetry Day is
Celebrated
World Poetry Day is
marked by events and activities that honor poets and their work, such as:
Poetry Readings and Open
Mic Nights – Writers and poetry enthusiasts gather in libraries, cafés, and
online platforms to share their verses.
Workshops and Writing
Competitions – Schools and literary organizations organize activities to
encourage new and young poets.
Tributes to Legendary
Poets – Many cultural institutions pay homage to influential poets whose words
have shaped literature.
Social Media Campaigns –
Hashtags like #WorldPoetryDay trend on platforms like Twitter and Instagram,
where users share their favorite poems.
The Role of Poetry in
Modern Society
Poetry is more than just
an art form; it is a tool for healing, resistance, and hope. In times of
crisis, poetry provides solace, giving people a means to articulate grief,
anger, love, and joy. Movements for social justice, climate action, and mental
health awareness have used poetry to spread messages of resilience and change.
Additionally, poetry’s
influence extends into music, theater, and film, showing its ability to
transcend traditional boundaries. With the rise of AI and digital storytelling,
new forms of poetry—such as visual and interactive poetry—are emerging, proving
that poetry continues to evolve while remaining deeply rooted in tradition.
CONCLUSION
World Poetry Day is a
reminder of the universal language of poetry—a language that speaks to the
soul, bridges cultures, and preserves the beauty of human expression. Whether
you are a poet, a reader, or someone who simply appreciates the beauty of
words, take a moment to celebrate poetry today. Write a verse, read a poem, or
share a favorite line. After all, as Pablo Neruda once said, "Poetry is an
act of peace."
Happy World
Poetry Day!
Psalmul
copacilor
În
fiecare primăvară,
copacii
își rostesc rugăciunea
cu
buzele de sevă aprinsă,
iar
mătăniile de flori
se
desprind din somnul iernii
și
aleargă, oarbe, între realitate și vis.
Pe
fiecare ramură stă o poezie,
tremurând
între lumi paralele,
un
haiku de vânt, un sonet de lumină,
o
proză scurtă din miresme efemere,
scrisă
cu alfabetul nevăzut al ploii.
Miroase
a alb,
a
liniște topită-n petale,
a
lumină strecurată prin crengi,
iar
sub tălpile înflorite ale timpului,
psalmii
primăverii se cântă singuri.
Noi,
trecători fără veșnicie,
ne
sprijinim frunțile de ninsoarea florilor,
căutând
răspunsuri în pulberea lor albă.
Mâinile
noastre se ridică spre cer
ca
niște ramuri rătăcite,
însetate
de un miracol care nu întreabă,
nu
cere nimic... doar înflorește.
©Corina
Junghiatu
****************
The
Psalm of Trees
Every
spring,
trees
whisper their prayer
with
lips of burning sap,
while
the rosaries of blossoms
break
free from winter’s slumber
and
run, blind, between reality and dream.
On
every branch, a poem lingers,
trembling
between parallel worlds,
a
haiku of wind, a sonnet of light,
a
short prose woven from fleeting scents,
written
in the invisible alphabet of rain.
It
smells of white,
of
silence melting into petals,
of
light slipping through the branches,
and
beneath time’s blossoming footsteps,
the
psalms of spring sing themselves.
We,
wanderers without eternity,
lean
our foreheads against the snow of flowers,
seeking
answers in their white dust.
Our
hands rise toward the sky
like
lost branches,
thirsting
for a miracle that does not ask,
does
not demand… it simply blooms.
©Corina
Junghiatu
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