أحلام العمر الثالث

ما يؤسف له عندما يكبر المرء في العمر، لا سيما بدءًا من المرحلة التي يسميها الجميع منتصف العمر، فإنه يتوقف عن السعي وراء أي حلم جديد، بل ويعدم أيضًا أي حلم قديم ويواريه الثرى. وتتغير نبرة حديثه عن الأحلام. فلا تعود نبرة متحمسة ومشتعلة. وتمتلئ جمله بالأفعال الماضية: "كنت أريد..." أو "كنت سأفعل..." بدلاً من "سأفعل" و"أنوي". يراقب عقارب الساعة مرعوبًا. يضيق عالمه. تموت أزهاره. ويتوقف عن العزف، والغناء.

لماذا يتوقع الإنسان عندما يصل إلى هذه المرحلة سكون المقابر؟ لماذا يقنع بالاستسلام إلى راحة/جمود سريره أو كرسيه الهزاز أمام التلفزيون أو داخل شرفته، يرى العالم كله حوله يتحرك بينما هو ثابت في مكانه؟ لماذا يتوهم أن الأحلام في هذه المرحلة مثل بركان خامد في حين أنها في الحقيقة تظل حممًا بركانية تغلي وتتدفق تحت قشرة رفيعة من السطح؟

الله لم يخلق الأحلام كي نتوقف عن السعي إليها في أية مرحلة. الله لم يخلق الأحلام كي نحققها ثم نقنع بما حققناه فنجلس في الظل نراقب غيرنا في سعيهم وراء أحلامهم. الأحلام هدفها السعي إليها بلا هوادة. هذه الرحلة وراء الحلم أهم بكثير من تحقيق الحلم نفسه.

في خضم مشكلات الحياة اليومية، ستجد أنك غارق وسط الملايين من الالتزامات والمهام ومواعيد التسليم النهائية. لا شك بالطبع أن هذه المهام ضرورية، فلولاها لما حصلنا على كل الأشياء التي نحتاجها ونقدر قيمتها في حياتنا: الطعام والمأوى والأمان والتعليم. ولكن الأحلام ضرورية بالمثل. ودون السعي إليها، فإنها سرعان ما تخفت وتبقى شعلة غير مستغلة تحت الرماد. فكر في كل حلم لم تحققه. مهما بلغت من العمر، اسع وراءه. وفكر في أحلام جديدة. ستجد القائمة طويلة للغاية: إنشاء مشروع جديد، أو السفر حول العالم، أو تعلم مهارة جديدة أو لغة ثانية.

المهم أن تظل تحلم. وأن تحلم أن الغد قادم. وأنك قادر على تحقيق حلمك. وأنه ليس هناك سن معاش للأحلام. لأن الأحلام خالدة. وكانت موجودة منذ بدء الخليقة. منذ حلم الإنسان بإشعال النار. وستظل موجودة حتى يصل الإنسان إلى أبعد مجرات الكون.

Scarred

People have scars in all sorts of unexpected places. Like secret roadmaps of their personal histories... diagrams of all their old wounds. Most of our old wounds heal leaving nothing behind but a scar, but some of them don't. Some wounds we carry with us everywhere... and though the cuts long gone... the pain still lingers. What's worse, new wounds which are so horribly painful... or old wounds that should have healed years ago and never did. Maybe our old wounds teach us something... they remind us of where we've been and what we've overcome. They teach us lessons about what to avoid in the future. That's what we like to think. But that's not the way it is, is it? Somethings we just have to learn over and over and over again.

نور ماليني

اقتباسًا منك يا نوار، لما حطيتي موضوع (حب ماليني) في البلوج بتاعك. أنا كمان بقولك إن جوايا نور ماليني. أنتي من أحسن الأصدقاء اللي ربنا حباني بيهم. أنتي أروع إنسانة بجد. وعايزة أقولك إن الأغنية اللي أنتي رشحتيها ليا عشان أسمعها لما كنت بشكيلك عن حالة الاكتئاب اللي أنا عايشاها بقالي فترة، بقولك إن الأغنية ديه بقت في وداني علطول، حتى لو مش معايا الإم بي ثري أو الموبايل. أنا بقيت بحاول أعيش الحالة اللي في الأغنية بفضلك أنتي. أنا فعلاً حاسة زي ما تكون الأغنية ديه متألفة علشاني أنا. شكرًا ليكي كتييييييييييييييييير يا نوار. يا أجمل ملاك

خايف من بكرة ليه؟
مين يعرف بكرة إيه؟
مين يعرف بكرة إيه؟
أنا مش هبص ورايا ولا أقول آآه
مهما الأمل غاب العيون شايفاه
اليأس مش هيوصلك
ولو الهموم هتحصلك
مش راح تقف الحياة
ونخاف من بكرة ليه؟
مين عارف بكرة إيه؟
يا حبيبي ماله الليل
الليل طول؟
وكل ما يقرب يخلص
يفضل يرجع م الأول
سيب اللي يكره يكره
وأنت أحلم ببكرة
مع إنه لسه ما جاش
مهما تحاصرك همومك ويلومك مين يلومك
لاء متعشهاش

بلاش
لسه الورود بتشق براعمها
والفرحة بتلاعب نسايمها
ونخاف من بكرة ليه؟
مين عارف بكرة إيه؟

****

كل الجروح ليها دوا

يا طير يا حايم في الهوا

اطوي الجناح على الجراح

واضحك

ويلا نطير سوا

أنا مش هبيع الصدق بالأكاذيب

ولا أقولش للحمل الوديع يا ديب

ولا أقولش للديب يا أعز حبيب

والصدق مهما عز

في الأزمة مش ههتز

ساعات يكون كتم الأنين أصدق

وأنا مهما أقع راح أقوم

وأنا مهما أقع راح أقوم

وديه مسألة مبدأ

بيكدبوا الصدق

أما الكدب يتصدق

يا ليل تطول

بكرة تلقى الفجر بيشقشق

أنا في انتظار الصباح

أنا احتويت الجراح

وخلاص نسيت اللي راح

ومن جديد هبدأ

وديه مسألة مبدأ

(غناء المطرب الموهوب علي الحجار)

You Are My Life

One great song. I was keeping myself from listening to it until I find the Right Man. I never wanted to listen to it through. I regarded it a special song. A song dedicated to lovers alone. A song that speaks my mind to the man I love. "You are my Life" by Umm Kulthum. I wanted to wait. It would be like a bonus, a special present crowning my love. And yet, today ... of all days ... just on the eve of the Valentine's Day, I was forced to listen to it over and over again. It was that cab driver that insisted on listening to it. I asked, ordered, almost begged for him to stop the song. He was astonished. "My child, how come you, young generation, never like such a miraculous voice?" "You don't understand," I wanted to scream, "such a miracle I wanted to enjoy with someone special." "Miss, please reconsider. You'll fall in love with Umm Kulthum once you've heard that one. Everyone does."

I sat back. Looked out of the window to the road full of faces. I listened. Deeply and almost floating with the music and lyrics. How disappointing! Here is another Valentine's Day. It's been years since the day Fate thought it was necessary to take my only love from me. It was in February, too. On the 22nd of February. About 5 years back. It took me forever to move on. I thought I was never gonna live another day. But here I am. Dreaming of falling in love AGAIN ... with the right one AGAIN.

A year ago, I watched an episode of the TV show "Lost". There was that guy called Desmond. He read all Charles Dickens' works. All but one. "Our Mutual Friend". He kept that novel till he feels the end is near. His end.

Today, I remembered that Desmond. By preventing myself from listening to that song, I thought I was going to meet Mr. Right again. But that stupid cab driver dashed all my dreams and hopes. I was left with the feeling that this is no age of miracles. You have to accept what life offers you. No choice. Otherwise, you'll be left with that agonizing feeling. Hurt. Disappointed. Lonely. Anguished. Longing for something (or someone) you know is never gonna come your way. This is one more thing I have to get over. Let go. And move on.

Bad Hair Day

Whenever I feel depressed I redecorate my room. I change the places and positions of everything. I bring my library down, arrange the book in an easy, reachable manner and then put the library back up (the library thing is so exhausting because I spend about 3-4 hours minimum trying to arrange the books). I change the way I put the bed sheets, change the hanging photos and pictures, change the places of my sofa and mirror. I even throw away my makeup and buy new items. In short, I erase everything that might remind me of my depressing situation.


That used to work so fine in the past. It made me feel utterly new and refreshed especially each year when I finished my exams. But when it stopped to be of any use lately, or at least of any great use as it used to be, I tried to search for new ways to change my mood again and make me happy even if it was for a short while. So, I wanted a new look.


First I started with my style of clothes. I got rid of the things that really don't make me feel comfortable (chiefly psychologically rather than physically - although I use the damn high heels that is about to break my back). Then I shifted to the most important thing that really worried me. My hairstyle. I mean It's been years and years since I had a nice haircut. And it was so long that I didn't want to let go of my beautiful long hair. I guess I finally took the decision in the spur of the moment. I just headed to the beauty salon on my way home from work. I asked the stylist to make my hair shorter in less than 10 minutes or I'll regret it all. I used some mask. I got pedicured. I had facial and hair masks. In the end, it was such a great feeling. You know? To feel like you are a different person. I look in the mirror and for a moment I don't recognize myself.

My Teachers' Pet Complex

Since I was little I've always been my teachers' pet. Not only because my own mother was a teacher herself and I used to go to the same school that she works in, but also because I worked hard to be so (i.e. to be my teachers' favourite student). As a matter of fact, I don't know if it was luck, mere coincidence or success that I was always the favourite one to my teachers.

That should make anyone happy. However, I am sure those of you who were in the same shoes before know what that brings on you. War. Everyone is at war with you. Sometimes you would think that this serves you right. You got one thing, you have to sacrifice another. Other times you would think to yourself: "Why should I sacrifice ANYTHING? What have I done wrong? I work hard. I deprive myself of so many things to be an ideal student." And that's the problem. An ideal student. Or so you might think.

I remember more than anything the wars launched at me by students. Some of them would take revenge by cutting my notes and books to pieces (obviously they did not mind a punishment), they would also attack me during the day, eat my dinner, push my petite body to the ground, scratch my skin, play tough in general. My mother always used to defend me and say: "They are jealous, and you should never have them in your life anyway or even think about them. You only have to work hard and prove to them you are the best."

So, as the years pass, from kindergarten years to college, I let it be. I remained my teachers and professors' pet. The one who they always say: "Marwa, you are the BEST. I don't know why your colleagues don't follow your example, bla bla bla." Can you imagine my face at times like these. Happy? Sad? Actually a mixture of both. I knew each word my teachers or professors say would punch a hole in my little boat of hope for acquiring new friends other than my childhood ones.

As a little girl, I always reacted. It's natural. My mind reacted to cope. If you are not willing to be my friend, then rest assured you will not gain my friendship. Even Sahar Gouda, although she was not a teacher's pet herself, had her share of the war only because she was MY friend. They hated her because of me. At the primary school, children would rip my bag and cut my notes to pieces. At the prep school, they would reject and tease me and never include me in their group. At the secondary school, they would attack Sahar at the backstreet of our school. At college, they would talk to me only to use the notes I write and the books I study.

I wish I can call that an ancient history, but I'm not that lucky. Ill-fated maybe. The curse remains at the workplace. I'm my managers' pet!

Conquering fears

When I was little, and part of being that, my folks and neighbours and others loved to see the expression of fear on my face when, for example, they turn off the lights and leave me in the dark, boo me out of nowhere, threaten that there are monsters under my bed, tell me that the dead never really die and they can just knock at the door any time, or point at dogs or cats and tell me if I'm not a good girl they'd let the dogs or cats eat me.

So, you can see I was about to be the first 3-year old child that dies of a heart attack. I grew up almost scared of anything. Literally. The only safe place, the shelter I used to run to and hide behind its walls was my old room. It was somewhat contained. At the time, I doubted that any thing can get me while I'm in that room. I'm saying my old room because we moved out a long time ago. And since then I never felt safe. I mean my family took away the only place that I really wanted to be in the whole universe. Ever since that day so many nightmares attack me while sleeping - not to mention the ones I have while fully awake - and every time my mind is used to making a mental subconscious attempt to escape to that room. Each time I felt real scared, I closed the door of that room behind me and walked to the opposite wall watching. My old room used to have two windows. Both somewhat big and made of glass. And yet, no mental monster managed to break the glass and invade my shelter. I could see them trying while my back is to the sky-blue wall. After a while the monsters go away. Well, for some time.

With time, I found my mind so week to push me towards my old shelter. Or when it manages to do so, I find cracks all over the place and I feel so certain that the walls wouldn't hold forever. My fears became vivid. So vivid that I could almost touch them, almost hear the laughs of so many monsters happy to invade the (inaccessible) walls of my shelter. However, they are no longer the fears of a child. I mean I'm not scared of dogs or cats any more, not even of the dark - unless it is a dark and deserted street. My fears now are bigger. And there is no defence. The fear of the Unknown. Fear of dying. Fear of dying in a terrible way. Fear of getting old. Fear of looking old. Fear of being old. Fear of having not enough time to do all the things I used to dream about and thought I have all the time in the world to do them. Fear of having to make a hard decision. Fear of being alone.

The Door

In the past, it used to be really helpful for me to redecorate my room whenever I felt down or upset. I feel melancholic lately. For a long time actually. And the dark thoughts are more haunting now. My old strategy is not working any more. I changed the colour of everything in my room. I hanged new pictures. I changed the location of my bed, desk, and library. It is not helping any more. I feel like crying all the time.

In the past, I used to open my diary, let my feelings go, and then my tears would drop on the pages. I simply write. I just keep on writing until I can't feel my fingers, because I write with anger, sometimes with hope. Yesterday, I opened my diary. I don't know why I quit writing. To my greatest astonishment, I found the last page ever I write in my diary reads as follows:

Today I came to Your door. I had the hope in my heart that You'll be there. You are always there, because this is what You keep on telling us in the Holy Book. I was totally desperate. Rage was eating my heart. I climbed up the stairs to you. With each step, hope within me grows. There is a way out for me here. And... there I was. Standing in front of a closed door. Speechless and shocked, I knocked with so much anger and rage. My strong feelings pushed words out of my mouth, or was it my heart?: "Open the door. Open the door. You have to listen to me. You have to prove to me that You care". A veiled woman came running down from the upper floor and said: "What do you want? The mosque is closed for women except on Fridays." In my mind I was screaming: "But I need to speak with Him RIGHT NOW. I used to talk to Him anywhere, but he stopped listening. I thought maybe if I came all the way down here, He'd know that I really need His help". But I said nothing.

That day hope deserted my heart, and life has been awful ever since. Something in me has no will to ask for anything. I just wanted to be left alone.

Freeze the Moment

Was there a special moment in your life when you needed time to freeze and stop at it? Was there a moment when all you really wanted was to enjoy it and nothing else? Was there a moment in your life when you knew that it is the best?

Our special moments are brief. And only a few are gifted with the ability to know that they are so. Sometimes it is just a matter of appreciation; regarding each moment as special. I remember very few special moments. I knew at the time that they are here now and I wanted to hold on to them.

In our family the appreciation of physical touch is not there. That's why when Mom hugged me so tightly the day I got the high marks in Thanawya Amma, I held on to the moment. I just wanted to be in her arms forever. I knew I could be in no safer place as her bosom. I cried. She cried. People around us thought I was crying out of joy. Mom thought so, too. I was. Sort of. I was overwhelmed with the feelings of that moment. I wanted time to stop. To freeze. I wanted us to be a taken photograph that never turns black and white. For a short frozen moment... I knew I was safe, loved, and well-taken care of. Mom, I love you. I just hope that you still hold the memory of that day so close to your heart and think of it as the moment when you wanted the world to stop moving and the time to stop racing.

This Heart

¤*•,¸.¸,•*¤*•,¸.¸, .(¯`°´¯)• (¯`°´¯) .• ¤*•,¸.

يعامل معاملة الأطفال

*•,¸.¸,•*¤*•,¤*•,¸.¸,•*¤*•,¸.,•*¤*•,¸.¸,•*

Greatest Hits

These are the Greatest Hits in my life so far. They are the best moments that always keep my memory and heart warm. I thought of adding them as the year is coming to an end.

• The day I made Dad proud (at the age of five) among his friends by reading to them a complete page from the newspaper.



• When Mum took me in her arms the day I got very high marks in Thanawya Amma.



• The year I Knew both Dr. Karma Sami and Dr. Sahar El Mougy.



• The night Dr. Sahar El Mougy told me: "You're such a promising writer". (I always go to that entry in my diary.)



• The birthday I celebrated at PizzaHut thanks to my friends and my seniors at work who arranged the whole party without telling me (but I knew).



• The Valentine's Day you left me the rose in my notebook.

Rooftop ballerina

Last night I had one of the most exquisite and strange dreams. I was climbing the stairs. It was an awful job because the steps did not seem to end. But I was supposed to do something once I reached the roof. I don't know what it is. I saw someone coming down who said: "You are almost there." I looked up high and saw the sunrays penetrating and strong. Finally, I found myself in what seems to me like a palace hall. It was so beautiful with its so many spires. I was not alone. I discovered that I was invited to a ballet show. The most fantastic of all. So elegantly and confidently they danced. The male dancers were carrying the ballerinas up high on one arm like feathers, swirling them around. It was stupendous. I couldn't translate this dream. And yet, I will always keep it somewhere in my memory, to remind me that I can dream on.

Ice Cream Promises

I see myself with him in so many pictures when I was little. Most of the pictures I find myself wrapping my arms around his neck the way man holds on to a straw in a wild sea, so sure that that straw is the only way to safety. Later pictures, I see myself growing up, with only my mom in those pictures. Papa retreated either behind the camera, or worse, so far away from where we are as a family. In my adolescence years, I don't find either of them. Only pictures for school and college files. No family photos anymore.

When I was a little child, I used to believe that everything lasts forever! Isn't that typical for a young child? Only children believe in fairy tales. Now, I'm almost in my mid-twenties and the strangest thing is that I'm still trying to hold on to that little scared child in me, for that child alone is the only thing that keeps me moving ahead so bravely. That child was born inside of me because of papa. I thought that papa will always be around, no matter what. And Fate proved me wrong. Papa is away now. And that means that nothing lasts forever. If your own father can't stay with you, who else can?

Promises are like ice cream. Sweet and looking beautiful because you think you will have them forever. But then they melt like an ice cream. And you can't blame anyone. Because this is the way it should be. Papa promised me that he would always be there, so close to me. I guess that was just a sweet ice cream. And yet, I forgive you papa, you are only a human. And... I want to tell you the one thing that I can't get myself to say when you are actually around flesh and blood. Papa, I really really love and miss you so much it hurts. And I will always believe in your ice cream promises.

الفراشة في أعماقي

قبل أن أعي أي شيء عن الحياة، كنت أحسب نفسي فراشة. فراشة بجناحين. في طفولتي، كنت أتابع الفراشات بعيني وأحسب أنني في يوم من الأيام سيكبر لي جناحان مثلهم. لا أعلم من أين أتتني هذه الثقة بأنني مخلوق غير آدمي. وكنت أعشق الطيران ومراقبة السماء والطائرات والفراشات والطيور وكل ما لا يجد أمامه حائطًا سدًا. طبعًا، كان ذلك يتسبب لي في مشاكل جمة. فأمي كانت تنهرني على الدوام. ومع هذا، لم تقلها لي صراحةً، لم تقل لي: "أنتي لستي فراشة، أنتي بشر من لحم ودم!" ربما كانت تخشى أن تحطم الحقيقة الملموسة الوحيدة لدى طفلة صغيرة. وربما كانت تخشى أن تحطم آمالها المستقبلية. وربما لأنها - في جانب ما من قلبها وعقلها - كانت مؤمنة بذلك. فأنا متمردة وحرة، بقلبي وعقلي. مثل فراشة لا يهمها من أين ينبع النور. ولكنها على استعداد لإثبات جدارتها في الاقتراب منه. هذا غير مشاكل أخرى سببها لي اعتقادي بأنني فراشة. فمثلاً، تعرضت ذراعي للكسر 4 مرات وأنا طفلة صغيرة لأني كنت أنتهز فرصة غياب أمي أو انشغالها وأصعد على ظهر الكرسي وأفرد ذراعي وأرفع رأسي عاليًا دون أن أهتم بالنظر إلى أسفل وأغمض عيني وآخذ نفسًا عميقًا وألقي بنفسي بين أحضان الهواء، فقط لأفيق بسقطة على الأرض تكسر ذراعي وأحيانًا قدمي.

كنت أظن أنني مازلت إلى اليوم أحتفظ بهذه الفراشة العجوز في أعماقي. أبحث لها عن إكسير يرد إليها الشباب أو ترياق يخلصها من سم مضي العمر. أخشى عليها أن تتعطن. ليلة أمس، صادفتني فراشة. جعلت تشاكسني وتطير من حولي. رفعت كتابًا وانهلت عليها بالضرب مرات ومرات في غيظ شديد. ثم توقفت ألهث. لا أكاد أستطيع التقاط أنفاسي. كأنما هرولت أميالاً وأميالاً. رفعت كتابي ونظرت إليها مسحوقة. استحالت رمادًا. لقد دفنت بيدي الفراشة في أعماقي

ملعونة بالهجر

لست أدري لماذا أريد أن أسرد هذه الحادثة القديمة. ربما لأنها خلفت ورائها جرحًا لن يندمل. ولست أدري كذلك لماذا تلح على ذهني هذه الأيام بالذات. ربما لأني توقفت عن النظر في المرآه، فصار العقل الباطن يجبرني على رؤية أشياء (بالعافية). ماذا في الحياة لا يحدث (بالعافية وغصبن عن نن عنيك)؟ ولكني أعتقد أن هذه الحادثة وغيرها من الحوادث المشابهة المرتبطة بالثقة من عدمها هي السبب فيما استحلت إليه. لا أستطيع أن أثق في الناس بسهولة.

مس جميلة ميلاد. مدرسة اللغة الإنجليزية. كانت أقرب المدرسات في سنة أولى ثانوي إلى قلبي، وهي كانت تعشقني. ولست أبالغ حين أقول إنها كانت أحد الأسباب التي جعلت فتيات كثيرات يحاولن إبعادي عن شلتهن. بالنسبة لي، كانت مس جميلة ميلاد السبب الوحيد الذي يجلعني أصحو من نومي وأذهب إلى مدرسة أكرهها وأحضر في الفصل مع مجموعة من الفتيات البلطجيات (لن أنسى مروة جزارين - كنا نسميها هكذا لأن والدها جزار - حين هددتني ذات مرة بساطور اللحمة). كانت مس جميلة ملاكًا. حتى جاء اليوم الذي كنت أخشاه. لا أعلم من الذي رماني بهذه اللعنة، لعنة الهجر المتواصل، على الرغم من أن لدي صديقتين مقربتين تعديتا المهلة التي يمنحني الزمن إياها قبل أن يسلبني من تعلقت بهم، وهما لمياء وسحر، فصداقتي بهما تعدت 15 عامًا. رقم قياسي بالمقارنة بالعلاقات الإنسانية الأخرى في حياتي

المهم، نعود لموضوعنا. معظم الفتيات في مدرستي الثانوية القديمة - كما هو الحال في معظم المدارس - بلا أدب ولا ذوق ولا أخلاق. وحدث ذات مرة أن طلبت مس جميلة من إحدى الفتيات أن تكف عن الثرثرة في أثناء شرح الدرس، ولكن الفتاة لم تتوقف عن الثرثرة، فصرخت مس جميلة في وجهها منفعلة كي تتوقف عن الكلام. لسوء الحظ، أقسم والله شهيد، كانت مس جميلة تحمل في يدها مسطرة تشرح بها ما سجلته على السبورة. وفي أثناء انفعالها، طارت المسطرة من يدها، ولكنها لم تصب الفتاة بالمرة، بل طارت واصطدمت بالنافذة ورائها، فأنا أجلس في المقعد الذي يجوارها مباشرةً وكنت أرى كل شيء بوضوح. وأقسم أن هذا ما حدث. ولكننا وجدنا الفتاة تصرخ وتقول: "آه يا عيني آه يا عيني!" طبعًا حيلة قديمة، ولكنها دائمًا تفلح.. للأسف.

وفُتح التحقيق مع مس جميلة.

وجاء محقق من الوزارة كي يحقق مع مس جميلة. وكان جزء من التحقيق أن يتحدث مع الشهود، وهم نحن الطلبة. فدخل وتحدث معنا وطمأننا ألا شيء سيحدث لمس جميلة، ولكنه يريد أن يعرف ما الذي حدث بالضبط. قامت الصديقة المقربة للفتاة التي اتهمت مس جميلة زورًا. وبالطبع اتهمتها زورًا هي الأخرى. ثم لما لم يجد المحقق شخصًا آخر يتحدث عن الحادثة، سألنا إن كان ثمة أحد يريد أن يتحدث معه على انفراد. فرفعت يدي أنا والصديقة المقربة للفتاة. لم أكن لأتخلى عن مس جميلة حتى لو خسرت الصداقات القليلة التي عقدتها في هذا الفصل. لن أتحدث عن الشرف والأمانة وشهادة الحق هنا. كل ما كان يهمني في هذا الموقف أن أبرئ مس جميلة بغض النظر عما يمكن أن يحدث لها أو لي أو لأي شخص. خرجت الصديقة المقربة أولاً مع المحقق ليتحدثا أمام الفصل. وتُركت وحدي مع بقية زميلاتي.. نظرات عيونهن نيران. وسمعت الفتاة تقول: "أنا هاقضي على مس جميلة ديه وأخليها تسيب المدرسة، عشان تحرم تبقى تزعقلي تاني". ثم نظرت لي وتابعت: "وأما أشوف مين بقى يقدر يساعدها". لم يهزني كلامها. كنت على استعداد لتحدي أي شخص من أجل إنسانة أحبها وأحترمها.

وجاء دوري. دخل المحقق وطلبني. خرجت وفوجئت بمس جميلة تقف أمام الفصل هي الأخرى. وبعد أن دخلت الصديقة المقربة "للضحية المزعومة"، ابتعد بي المحقق عن مس جميلة وطلب مني أن أحكي له كل شيء دون خوف، تحدثت عن الحقيقة. أتعتقدون أنني فتانة؟ ربما. ولكن كي أنقذ شخصًا أحترمه، كنت على استعداد للتضحية بأي شيء. وتحدثت عن الحقيقة، وذكرت له أن مس جميلة مظلومة وأن الفصل غاية في السلبية والجميع يعرف الحقيقة. تحدثت وتحدثت وكل ذلك ومس جميلة تقف من بعيد تراقبنا. كانت على ثقة - بلا شك - أنني في صفها. أنني معها. أساندها. ولكن القدر كان قد رسم بالفعل نهاية علاقتي بمُدرستي العزيزة.

بعد مرور ثلاثة أيام، ظهرت مس جميلة بالفصل ثانية بعد غياب. كنت في قمة سعادتي. ولكنها كانت قاطبة الوجه! نظرت إليها وحاولت أن أجعلها تنظر إلي كما اعتادت أن تفعل دائمًا. ما كانت تهتم باحترام أحد سواي. ما كانت تحظى بانتباه أحد الكامل سواي. رفعت يدي كي أجيب عن سؤال، ولكنها تجاهلتني كليةً. مرة. اثنتان. ثلاثة. أربعة. وأخيرًا، لما رأتني مصممة، أشاحت بيدها في غضب وقالت في لهجة حادة: "اتفضلي سمعينا". سقطت الإجابة من فمي، وسقط معها قلبي إلى سابع أرض. مس جميلة! أنا مروة! ألا تريني؟! صرخت ثانية: "متنطقي ولا اتخرستي دلوقت". رأيت نظرات الفتيات المُسلطة عليّ. ما هذا؟ أهي مزحة؟ مقلب؟ ماذا يجري؟

تكررت المأساة يومين آخرين. وفي اليوم الثالث، لجأت إلى صديقتي المقربة (سحر)، وكنت معتادة أن أحكي لها عن كل شيء، وطلبت منها أن تذهب تحدث مس جميلة لتعرف منها سبب معاملتها الجافية تجاهي. وبالفعل، ذهبت سحر لتتحدث مع مس جميلة في فترة البريك أو الفسحة. وقبل انتهاء البريك بخمس دقائق خرجت إليّ سحر من غرفة المدرسين وقالت: "مصيبة!" سألتها عما حدث.

كانت الطامة الكبرى عندما عرفت بما وقع.

المحضر الذي أعده محقق الوزارة ذكر فيه أن ثمة فتاتين فقط تتهمان مس جميلة بالاعتداء على الطالبة زميلتهما بالضرب. وذكر الاسمين. اسمي واسم الصديقة المقربة للفتاة

ماذا أقول؟ هرعت إلى مس جميلة أشرح لها الحقيقة، ولكنها لم تنصت لي، وقالت: "هل أصدقك وأكذب محقق الوزارة؟" مس جميلة يجب أن تصدقيني، لأني قلت الحقيقة. قبل أن أشهد بالحق أنا قلت الحقيقة قبل كل شيء. يا رب! أهذا جزاء من يقول الحقيقة؟ مس جميلة! اسمعيني! ولكنها سدت أذنيها ورحلت. ومن يومها لم أرها في المدرسة

هذا مثال على حوادث كثيرة مماثلة وقعت في حياتي نزعت عني الثقة في أي مخلوق. وصرت مع مرور الوقت أعتبر علاقتي بالناس مؤقتة. ففي يوم من الأيام، بسبب لعنة ما، سيفارقونني. حتمًا سيفارقونني.
لهذا، أعتذر لهم، إذا مسهم شيء من لعنتي. وأعتذر إن تجنبت من يحاولون أن يدخلوا حياتي، لأنني صرت أخشى التعلق بالناس كي لا يجرحوني بالهجر والفراق. وفضلت أن أتعايش مع لعنتي

Belonging

To whom do you belong?

I love people, miss them, and my heart aches if they are gone. Nevertheless, my heart gets torn apart when Fate makes me leave a place I love. I don't know what comes over me when I pass by my old street and my old house. Each time I wish I can go up to our old apartment and hold the walls in my arms, touch the cold tiles, kiss the windows, stand on the spot where my bed used to be. Even though at the time I hated the noise, the dirty street, the crazy neighbours, and the water we never saw except for one hour from 3:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m, but still whenever my old house comes to my mind I don't remember anything but the moments of happiness, few as they were. At least, I was still a child not knowing anything about the world. Or - to be precise - I used to read novels and think to myself: "The bad guys belong to fairytales. The good ones are the reality." However, as I was growing up, I found out - to my greatest shock - I WAS WRONG. people cheat, kill, and steal in the real world. They leave; they die; and they hurt each other.

The only place I feel safe, the only place I feel I belong to, the only place I can call home is at the tip of my pen. There, I create the Utopia I love. There I become a god. I create. I raise the people who died in my life and bring back those who left. I become in full control. No tears or sorrow. No heartaches. There are no bad guys. Only misfortunate beings toyed with by Fate. There, I don't feel alone. There, I live and breathe. There, I become "me," without a past or present or future.

Guest at dawn

 

Two nights ago, I encountered one of the most difficult experiences in my whole life. I wanted to talk about it. Unfortunately, I'm not on good terms with my diary for over 2 months now. I can't reach my 2 best friends. And even if I did, they will either get so worried or think I'm going crazy. So, at first I tried to keep it to myself. But it is haunting me whenever and wherever I go. Yes, I may be overreacting. But at that time, deep in the night (well, no, just half an hour before the Morning Prayer), it seemed to me so real that my heart almost burst. I thought it was a dream or - to be precise - a nightmare. But fear really paralyzed me. And astonishment, too.

At around 4:00 a.m, I woke up fully conscious. I did not open my eyes. I did not breathe or move one finger. I just stayed put as if still asleep. At first - and for a few seconds - I thought it was me having difficulty sleeping (it is common with me), but I sensed something in my room. I sleep alone. No one was supposed to be here. And yet, I sensed the presence of someone. Or something. I opened my eyelids a bit so slowly. Since I sleep in almost total darkness and with my door closed I couldn't at first see anything. Just shadows because of the streetlights.

Until this very minute I did not move my head the slightest bit. But... IT was there. It was not the first time that I wake up in the night, but this time was different. I swear I felt something/someone that wanted to talk to me. That's exactly what I felt then. Someone wanted to communicate... wanted me to listen.

Overreacting? Maybe. Let me go on. I opened my eyes fully and moved my head around. No one was here. It must be me going loca! Whatever it was, I dared the worst. I sat up in my bed, brushed my hair behind my ears, and watched the surroundings for a moment or so. I won't lie. I was afraid. So damned afraid. I could almost hear the loud beating of my heart. However, I stood on my feet. For my astonishment, I felt as if someone was breathing next to my ear. With one jump to the door - which is only 3 or 4 steps away from the bed - I reached the knob and turned it open and rushed out of the room, all at the same time.

A minute later, I decided to follow a piece of advice given by Jack Shephard (actor Matthew Fox in the TV show Lost) to Kate (Actress Evangeline Lilly): "Fear is sort of an odd thing... the terror was just so... crazy. So real. And I knew I had to deal with it. So I just made a choice. I'd let the fear in. Let it take over. Let it do its thing. But only for five seconds. That's all I was gonna give it. So I started to count. One... two... three... four... five. Then it was gone."

I did the same. I counted to five. And went back to my room. I was afraid no more. Whatever it was I sensed in my room earlier was gone.