سامري في أزقة فينيسيا
فينيسيا فجرا، أزقتها مرايا للبيوت. تبدأ خلسة بوضوح، ثم تنتهي و تتحطم، فنسمع صوت التكسر، و لا نرى الشظايا
فينيسيا فجرا تحملك بين النوافذ و الجدران طائرا حائرا بين سماء و سماء
فينيسيا فجرا، و ابشري يا عين. شوارعها ايقاع سامري و أصوات أقدام تمشي على الماء
أرسل لك هذه الرسالة يا فجر فينيسيا، من ذكرى تراءت لي بوجل بعد سنتان من بزوغك
فينيسيا فجرا تحملك بين النوافذ و الجدران طائرا حائرا بين سماء و سماء
فينيسيا فجرا، و ابشري يا عين. شوارعها ايقاع سامري و أصوات أقدام تمشي على الماء
أرسل لك هذه الرسالة يا فجر فينيسيا، من ذكرى تراءت لي بوجل بعد سنتان من بزوغك
CIRCUS
"setting up strings, dance with strings, then pack them up and move away"
The Torture
I was in an Incommunicado detention for two weeks. Then I was taken to a room with a window overlooking another room. In the middle of this room there was a chair on which I sat. There was a young man in the other room. He sat right in front of me, and I have never seen him before. I noticed a camera focused on me.
"You only have to watch that stranger", the police officer said, and I mimed as yes.
I was not sure whether it is a questioning, or a torment session. I could realize no difference at that stage. It was a pleasure to see a person after two weeks of solitude, but he seemed without expression. He didn't look like an officer, he was just another prisoner. I smiled to him, and then an electric shock runs over my body. I was confused and contracted my brows as a reaction, but it was followed by another one. He didn't do anything, not a single muscle in his face was moving. Thus In an imitation I froze my face just like him, and everything was back to silence. After three hours I cried. And the electric shock started again. I realized that it is a torment machine to hold me from any facial expression. I stopped and looked straight into the stranger's eyes. I studied every line in his face, every curve.
Three days later, I was back to a normal cell. Forgetting how do I look, having his face in front of mine, both without an expression, made me in half-belief that he is me. My mind was full of stories about him just to distract me from the dreadful freeze of our muscles. It was hard and fearful to adapt my relaxed face that set me in a self paranoia. The police man entered, sealed my eyes and took me in a car. I felt that we are going to another prison or so. The car stopped and we were out in the fresh air, and what a wonderful relief that was. I was almost losing my conscious.
He released my eyes from the seal, the image of the man in the last torment was still haunting me. The new room was wide and dark, and there was also a chair in the middle. I sat on that chair, and doze. The strange man came to me in the dream, he smiled but nothing was happening to him, as if he doesn't feel the electric shocks. He left the room, but I didn't want him to go, I cried: "don't go, don't go!".
I heard a child's giggle. It annoyed me. It felt like a mocking relief. I woke up terrified from a great noise, and rose my head with my eyes half open. I saw a great amount of faces watching me. I leaned to the chair and cried. In my half conscious I heard a child was crying with me. Then I lost my conscious, and my mind.
"You only have to watch that stranger", the police officer said, and I mimed as yes.
I was not sure whether it is a questioning, or a torment session. I could realize no difference at that stage. It was a pleasure to see a person after two weeks of solitude, but he seemed without expression. He didn't look like an officer, he was just another prisoner. I smiled to him, and then an electric shock runs over my body. I was confused and contracted my brows as a reaction, but it was followed by another one. He didn't do anything, not a single muscle in his face was moving. Thus In an imitation I froze my face just like him, and everything was back to silence. After three hours I cried. And the electric shock started again. I realized that it is a torment machine to hold me from any facial expression. I stopped and looked straight into the stranger's eyes. I studied every line in his face, every curve.
Three days later, I was back to a normal cell. Forgetting how do I look, having his face in front of mine, both without an expression, made me in half-belief that he is me. My mind was full of stories about him just to distract me from the dreadful freeze of our muscles. It was hard and fearful to adapt my relaxed face that set me in a self paranoia. The police man entered, sealed my eyes and took me in a car. I felt that we are going to another prison or so. The car stopped and we were out in the fresh air, and what a wonderful relief that was. I was almost losing my conscious.
He released my eyes from the seal, the image of the man in the last torment was still haunting me. The new room was wide and dark, and there was also a chair in the middle. I sat on that chair, and doze. The strange man came to me in the dream, he smiled but nothing was happening to him, as if he doesn't feel the electric shocks. He left the room, but I didn't want him to go, I cried: "don't go, don't go!".
I heard a child's giggle. It annoyed me. It felt like a mocking relief. I woke up terrified from a great noise, and rose my head with my eyes half open. I saw a great amount of faces watching me. I leaned to the chair and cried. In my half conscious I heard a child was crying with me. Then I lost my conscious, and my mind.
#2
المقاعد ممتلئة، لطالما انتظرت هذا اليوم. جلست على أحد الكرسيين الخاليين في الصف السابع. أطالع تصفيفات الشعر و ألوانها، و تقاسيم الوجوه المتلفتة و طفل جالس على مقربة من مكاني. العرض مناجاة للنفس، لم أحضر عرضا كهذا من قبل
خفتت الأضواء فخفت معها التهامس بين الناس
سمعنا مشادة كلامية غير مفهومة بين رجلين من الخلف حيث بهو الاستقبال، ففتح الستار: رجل يغفو على كرسي. و ساد صمت، ثم ضحكات خفيفة من الكواليس
"كيف؟" صرخ و هو نائم، ثم أخذ يتضرع بصوت حزين "لا تذهب، لا تذهب!" ثم ساد صمت طويل
سكون دام حوالي الربع ساعة، ثم تنحنح كمن سيصحو من منامه
فصفق شخص و صفقنا معه
فصحا كالمذعور، و حدق فينا كالآتي من مكان بعيد
و بكى في مكانه
فسكنت الضحكات
و دخل إلى المسرح طفل، سمعنا شهقة بيننا، وقف الطفل أمام الرجل الباكي برهة
ثم أجهش في البكاء
سمعنا أصوات مبعثرة من الكواليس
ستار
ساد صمت بين الجمهور، لم يصفق. فقامت أم الطفل الذي كان يجلس بقربي، و هرعت إلى الكواليس
فقام الناس يخرجون باضطراب غريب
خارج المسرح، ماشية إلى البيت كانت الأم أمامي، تمشي بسرعة الحانق، قابضة على يد ولدها الذي ما زال يبكي
كان هو الطفل الذي بكى على المسرح
خفتت الأضواء فخفت معها التهامس بين الناس
سمعنا مشادة كلامية غير مفهومة بين رجلين من الخلف حيث بهو الاستقبال، ففتح الستار: رجل يغفو على كرسي. و ساد صمت، ثم ضحكات خفيفة من الكواليس
"كيف؟" صرخ و هو نائم، ثم أخذ يتضرع بصوت حزين "لا تذهب، لا تذهب!" ثم ساد صمت طويل
سكون دام حوالي الربع ساعة، ثم تنحنح كمن سيصحو من منامه
فصفق شخص و صفقنا معه
فصحا كالمذعور، و حدق فينا كالآتي من مكان بعيد
و بكى في مكانه
فسكنت الضحكات
و دخل إلى المسرح طفل، سمعنا شهقة بيننا، وقف الطفل أمام الرجل الباكي برهة
ثم أجهش في البكاء
سمعنا أصوات مبعثرة من الكواليس
ستار
ساد صمت بين الجمهور، لم يصفق. فقامت أم الطفل الذي كان يجلس بقربي، و هرعت إلى الكواليس
فقام الناس يخرجون باضطراب غريب
خارج المسرح، ماشية إلى البيت كانت الأم أمامي، تمشي بسرعة الحانق، قابضة على يد ولدها الذي ما زال يبكي
كان هو الطفل الذي بكى على المسرح
Imprisoned Poetry [UPDATED]
Déjeuner du matin, Jacques Prévert [Paroles: 1946]
Il a mis le café .. He pored the coffee
Dans la tasse .. In the cup
Il a mis le lait .. He pored the milk
Dans la tasse de café .. In the cup of coffee
Il a mis le sucre .. He put a piece of sugar
Dans le café au lait .. In the laté
Avec la petite cuiller .. With a little spoon
Il a tourné .. He turned
Il a bu le café au lait .. He drank the laté
Et il a reposé la tasse .. And he rested the cup
Sans me parler .. Without me speaking
Il a allumé .. He lit
Une cigarette .. A cigarette
Il a fait des ronds .. He made circles
Avec la fumée .. With smoke
Il a mis les cendres .. And put the ashes
Dans le cendrier .. In the ashtray
Sans me parler .. Without me speaking
Sans me regarder .. Without me looking
Il s'est levé .. He stood
Il a mis .. He put
Son chapeau sur sa tête .. His hat on his head
Il a mis son manteau de pluie .. He put his rain coat
Parce qu'il pleuvait .. Because it was raining
Et il est parti .. And he left
Sous la pluie .. under the rain
Sans une parole .. without a word
Sans me regarder .. without me looking
Et moi j'ai pris .. And I have taken
Ma tête dans ma main .. My head in my hand
Et j'ai pleuré .. And I've cried
Last summer my friend and I were reading for Gilles Deleuze. One of our understandings from his essay on Hume is that beauty in our perception of life resides in the impersonality of human productions or projections.
"Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West" is a bestselling novel by Gregory McGuire which is a parallel novel of L.Frank Baum's classic story "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz". "Wicked" takes the worst character in Baum's story and tells its biography before Dorothy comes in the setting, picturing her as one of a bad luck in her childhood. This is one example of Gilles Deleuze ideas on the subject, in which it is no matter whose idea was the land of Oz, but how much it can afford more stories and angles.
Impersonality is a concept that implies that we have the tendency to become 'one' and thus our childhood memory can stretch back to ancient stages of history to reach Greek mythologies. It may even reach minimal signs of human existence, so it needs a plastic process of thinking through time. It needs a cinematic flow in thinking, writing or generally expressing.
"why don't you like Tawfeeq Al-Hakeem?"
"Because most of his plays stolen from those sold in the streets of Paris"
There is a radical change in poetry during the 20th century. Photography and cinema have great effects to change literature and specifically poetry from Romanticism to Modernism in both Western and Arab regions, from a narrative poem to an movement or time poem. People had different ideals; Communism, Capitalism and struggling Colonial dreams. Cinema in its capability of cutting and interrupting events are more likely to reflect life and its complexities than romantic poems.
With everything becoming touched, heard and seen. feelings are no longer internal, they become surface -it might be described as technique- a person can easily get influenced, translate, imitate and experiment. The production of a poet is 'value' and poets experiment with values, eclectic agitations, yet remains one critical point of history; that it is multiple in nature. Events happened ten years ago can transform now into a more complex event.
What I call 'translations' made by Tawfeeq Al-Hakeem cannot express any cross-cultural context. You see pure Egypt, pure Arabic habits. He imitated French complexities in an Egyptian setting, but we don't see a cross-cultural layer that he is a part of it, we didn't see his travels within the writing.
Qabbani, is a politician and a poet. Purely wants to convey a message or to be heard. He didn't want to experiment with techniques like al-Sayyab or Nazik al-Mala'ika who represented the techniques of western poets in new ways. They understood the values expressed on the surface. It is the use of words that stimulated him, to translate mainly. I think imitators of value are students, worshipers and slaves, but in modernism because value is exposed on the surface, worshipers are easy to find.
[... The use of dramatic elements, such as dialogue, soliloquy and slogans, is borrowed from Western poetry. In fact, critics have suggested that these devices of using snatches of conversation and fleeting images -superficially unconnected- to give a comprehensive picture of an event or emotional situation are borrowed from psychology and film techniques...
Nizar Qabbani also employed the soliloquies of ladies in erotic moods, as in his poems Risala min Sayyida Haqida, Hubla, Aw'iyat al-Sadid, etc. In these poems Qabbani imitated modern French poets, mainly Jacques Prévert, to such an extent that Qabbani's poem Ma'a Jarida was described by some critics as a free translation and plagiarism of Prévert's poem 'Déjeuner du matin' in his Paroles.]*
"Can you imagine!"
"Can you imagine, that another book described the influence of Pre-Islamic poems on western poetry."
Yes I can imagine, there will be always a chain of influence, the only change here is that modern literature is naked; there is no hidden or aspired moral like in romanticism. Value in romanticism is subjective, thus the influence was defused. No one can bring up a similar trigger of the true value.
This makes me believe that the value in Qabbani's poem revealed more about modern poetry than anything else. I agree with the critics that it is a free translation of the poem. He wrote it in a woman's point of view, he imitates the setting, the weather, and the actions. There is one thing he didn't get which is the thing I couldn't imagine; ten years of difference between both poems, but nothing was added. Not even him. This results a rather imprisoned poetry than a so called 'free'.
To appreciate and develop modern literature we seek parallelism and the growth of complexities derived from time, events, cross-culture, motion, statics and the multiplicities of ego.
*Modern Arabic poetry 1800-1970:The Development of Its Forms and Themes Under the Influence of Western Literature, by Shmuel Moreh, Published by Brill Archive, 1976.
additional reference: المرشد إلى فهم أشعار العرب و صناعتها، في الأغراض و الأساليب، عبدالله الطيب- الجزء الرابع (القسم الثاني) - ١٩٩٦
Il a mis le café .. He pored the coffee
Dans la tasse .. In the cup
Il a mis le lait .. He pored the milk
Dans la tasse de café .. In the cup of coffee
Il a mis le sucre .. He put a piece of sugar
Dans le café au lait .. In the laté
Avec la petite cuiller .. With a little spoon
Il a tourné .. He turned
Il a bu le café au lait .. He drank the laté
Et il a reposé la tasse .. And he rested the cup
Sans me parler .. Without me speaking
Il a allumé .. He lit
Une cigarette .. A cigarette
Il a fait des ronds .. He made circles
Avec la fumée .. With smoke
Il a mis les cendres .. And put the ashes
Dans le cendrier .. In the ashtray
Sans me parler .. Without me speaking
Sans me regarder .. Without me looking
Il s'est levé .. He stood
Il a mis .. He put
Son chapeau sur sa tête .. His hat on his head
Il a mis son manteau de pluie .. He put his rain coat
Parce qu'il pleuvait .. Because it was raining
Et il est parti .. And he left
Sous la pluie .. under the rain
Sans une parole .. without a word
Sans me regarder .. without me looking
Et moi j'ai pris .. And I have taken
Ma tête dans ma main .. My head in my hand
Et j'ai pleuré .. And I've cried
مع جريدة، نزار قباني [قصائد: 1956]
أخرجَ من معطفهِ الجريده.. he brought out the journal from his coat
وعلبةَ الثقابِ and the matchbox
ودون أن يلاحظَ اضطرابي.. and without noticing my anxiety
ودونما اهتمامِ without care
تناولَ السكَّرَ من أمامي.. he took the sugar
ذوَّب في الفنجانِ قطعتين he diluted two pieces in the cup
ذوَّبني.. ذوَّب قطعتين he diluted me.. diluted two pieces
وبعدَ لحظتين and after two moments
ودونَ أن يراني without looking at me
ويعرفَ الشوقَ الذي اعتراني.. and knowing the longing
تناولَ المعطفَ من أمامي he took the coat
وغابَ في الزحامِ and disappeared in the crowd
مخلَّفاً وراءه.. الجريده leaving behind, the journal
lonely وحيدة
مثلي أنا.. وحيده like me .. lonely
Last summer my friend and I were reading for Gilles Deleuze. One of our understandings from his essay on Hume is that beauty in our perception of life resides in the impersonality of human productions or projections.
"Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West" is a bestselling novel by Gregory McGuire which is a parallel novel of L.Frank Baum's classic story "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz". "Wicked" takes the worst character in Baum's story and tells its biography before Dorothy comes in the setting, picturing her as one of a bad luck in her childhood. This is one example of Gilles Deleuze ideas on the subject, in which it is no matter whose idea was the land of Oz, but how much it can afford more stories and angles.
Impersonality is a concept that implies that we have the tendency to become 'one' and thus our childhood memory can stretch back to ancient stages of history to reach Greek mythologies. It may even reach minimal signs of human existence, so it needs a plastic process of thinking through time. It needs a cinematic flow in thinking, writing or generally expressing.
"why don't you like Tawfeeq Al-Hakeem?"
"Because most of his plays stolen from those sold in the streets of Paris"
There is a radical change in poetry during the 20th century. Photography and cinema have great effects to change literature and specifically poetry from Romanticism to Modernism in both Western and Arab regions, from a narrative poem to an movement or time poem. People had different ideals; Communism, Capitalism and struggling Colonial dreams. Cinema in its capability of cutting and interrupting events are more likely to reflect life and its complexities than romantic poems.
With everything becoming touched, heard and seen. feelings are no longer internal, they become surface -it might be described as technique- a person can easily get influenced, translate, imitate and experiment. The production of a poet is 'value' and poets experiment with values, eclectic agitations, yet remains one critical point of history; that it is multiple in nature. Events happened ten years ago can transform now into a more complex event.
What I call 'translations' made by Tawfeeq Al-Hakeem cannot express any cross-cultural context. You see pure Egypt, pure Arabic habits. He imitated French complexities in an Egyptian setting, but we don't see a cross-cultural layer that he is a part of it, we didn't see his travels within the writing.
Qabbani, is a politician and a poet. Purely wants to convey a message or to be heard. He didn't want to experiment with techniques like al-Sayyab or Nazik al-Mala'ika who represented the techniques of western poets in new ways. They understood the values expressed on the surface. It is the use of words that stimulated him, to translate mainly. I think imitators of value are students, worshipers and slaves, but in modernism because value is exposed on the surface, worshipers are easy to find.
[... The use of dramatic elements, such as dialogue, soliloquy and slogans, is borrowed from Western poetry. In fact, critics have suggested that these devices of using snatches of conversation and fleeting images -superficially unconnected- to give a comprehensive picture of an event or emotional situation are borrowed from psychology and film techniques...
Nizar Qabbani also employed the soliloquies of ladies in erotic moods, as in his poems Risala min Sayyida Haqida, Hubla, Aw'iyat al-Sadid, etc. In these poems Qabbani imitated modern French poets, mainly Jacques Prévert, to such an extent that Qabbani's poem Ma'a Jarida was described by some critics as a free translation and plagiarism of Prévert's poem 'Déjeuner du matin' in his Paroles.]*
"Can you imagine!"
"Can you imagine, that another book described the influence of Pre-Islamic poems on western poetry."
Yes I can imagine, there will be always a chain of influence, the only change here is that modern literature is naked; there is no hidden or aspired moral like in romanticism. Value in romanticism is subjective, thus the influence was defused. No one can bring up a similar trigger of the true value.
This makes me believe that the value in Qabbani's poem revealed more about modern poetry than anything else. I agree with the critics that it is a free translation of the poem. He wrote it in a woman's point of view, he imitates the setting, the weather, and the actions. There is one thing he didn't get which is the thing I couldn't imagine; ten years of difference between both poems, but nothing was added. Not even him. This results a rather imprisoned poetry than a so called 'free'.
To appreciate and develop modern literature we seek parallelism and the growth of complexities derived from time, events, cross-culture, motion, statics and the multiplicities of ego.
*Modern Arabic poetry 1800-1970:The Development of Its Forms and Themes Under the Influence of Western Literature, by Shmuel Moreh, Published by Brill Archive, 1976.
additional reference: المرشد إلى فهم أشعار العرب و صناعتها، في الأغراض و الأساليب، عبدالله الطيب- الجزء الرابع (القسم الثاني) - ١٩٩٦
1st floor
I visit her every month, yet I was never been expected. I wait for an hour or two, either smelling the masculine scent of her room, or try to fix her laptop. her apartment remained of a teen-aged girl from that time. She had never stayed home enough to get bored from the wall paper, neither hanged a poster or a photograph on that wall, and she hates women.
"what are you doing here?" she asked while approaching to the laptop, not me.
"It's been a month"
"already?"
"it is exactly so"
I stopped wondering why I come for a long time. We know each other already very well that a conversation would not succeed. It collapses, just like her fragile strength. She grabbed my hand and guided me to the two wooden chairs near the window. The window view was not of an interest for me, but to her is a phenomenon. I loosen her hand as it was still holding tight unconsciously, and played my fingers over the veins of her wrist and palm. We listened to each other's breath and the panoramic noise of the city, yet each of us had a different view. When the sun rays were blocked from her face I looked away to the window. "It's going to rain" I said, and her lips interrupted my cheek from any expression. I stood up to leave and she stood with me, but she remained where she was as I was reaching the door.
I usually go downstairs very fast, but today apparently I revived all my senses. Thus when I arrived on the landing, I had a pause. I sat on a step, I couldn't move as if something was holding me. "Things" like a ball on your way or door handles are better in holding a person back than people. I haven't been caught before by any of those things, except of that landing in the mid of the staircase. A sound fractured my loose thoughts. She was crying. I listened to her, and my eyes were tearing when I heard the sound of heels coming closer to the door. I ran down quickly, her heels were pounding on my heart as I was rushing out to the street. I reached the nearest alley and hid in it until she had gone.
I opened my umbrella and walked to my district.
"what are you doing here?" she asked while approaching to the laptop, not me.
"It's been a month"
"already?"
"it is exactly so"
I stopped wondering why I come for a long time. We know each other already very well that a conversation would not succeed. It collapses, just like her fragile strength. She grabbed my hand and guided me to the two wooden chairs near the window. The window view was not of an interest for me, but to her is a phenomenon. I loosen her hand as it was still holding tight unconsciously, and played my fingers over the veins of her wrist and palm. We listened to each other's breath and the panoramic noise of the city, yet each of us had a different view. When the sun rays were blocked from her face I looked away to the window. "It's going to rain" I said, and her lips interrupted my cheek from any expression. I stood up to leave and she stood with me, but she remained where she was as I was reaching the door.
I usually go downstairs very fast, but today apparently I revived all my senses. Thus when I arrived on the landing, I had a pause. I sat on a step, I couldn't move as if something was holding me. "Things" like a ball on your way or door handles are better in holding a person back than people. I haven't been caught before by any of those things, except of that landing in the mid of the staircase. A sound fractured my loose thoughts. She was crying. I listened to her, and my eyes were tearing when I heard the sound of heels coming closer to the door. I ran down quickly, her heels were pounding on my heart as I was rushing out to the street. I reached the nearest alley and hid in it until she had gone.
I opened my umbrella and walked to my district.
Economic Hijab
Recently I heard about a hip in some companies which refuse to employ unveiled women. The other day at the café I saw a woman in front of me in the queue, I thought I'm sure I saw her somewhere when she said hi to me, I smiled to her and replied. "I thought you wouldn't know me, I work in the university and I usually see you around, but I usually wear a veil for work" she said. I really appreciated her confidence, and I thought it is normal because I saw lots of women wear something different to work like Abaya while they usually don't in other places, thus I believed that her wish is of a personal decision.
On the way back home my uncle was talking to me about a fresh graduate woman who found a job and attended her first days when the manager asked for her and told her that she doesn't have to attend -since he knows her father- she replied that she wants to work, but his answer was that she has to wear a veil to stay in the job. She returned home with great depression. You know in women's hearts an issue like Hijab is of a great sensitivity, first of all it is relative, and secondly in his attitude with her, a spiritual or ethical question turns into economical. and as minimal as I know about economics is that we have to turn whats purely economics into something ethical, and in this it is not about the employers more than the work of the company and its projects.
I was searching in my father's library trying to understand the essence of the 20th century -which revealed beautifully in the books- when I found a shelf with all the Islamic researches at that time; Muhammed Qutub, Al-Ghazali, etc.. Then I found a little booklet just like those on the shelves of hospitals' waiting rooms. It was published in Kuwait during the 1970s and it is called "Segregation" the first page in the book said that the aim of this issue is to make a women's college, I said wow!
And wondered all day long, how come a person spends a life time to make an idea comes into reality. How come he/she/they never had a single moment of doubt in this idea. What makes segregation, or any other dogma becomes the infrastructure of Utopia? And were there any discussions without an offensive/deffensive method?
Getting back to that shelf, I stared at one title with wonder, "The Future is to This Religion"; the sound of it felt very economic*. As if the only great thing that Islam gave us is its political system. sorry, but I cannot see "religion" in the title fits at all. People in the time when Islamic political power was ultimate, are becoming Muslims because Muslims' good manners, and because their traders do not steal. That means respect comes at the first place, and respect doesn't mean becoming polite, it means you don't impose your ideologies on a person as if they shouldn't but agree.
* my opinion is that politics is the show business of economy, so there is no much of a difference.
On the way back home my uncle was talking to me about a fresh graduate woman who found a job and attended her first days when the manager asked for her and told her that she doesn't have to attend -since he knows her father- she replied that she wants to work, but his answer was that she has to wear a veil to stay in the job. She returned home with great depression. You know in women's hearts an issue like Hijab is of a great sensitivity, first of all it is relative, and secondly in his attitude with her, a spiritual or ethical question turns into economical. and as minimal as I know about economics is that we have to turn whats purely economics into something ethical, and in this it is not about the employers more than the work of the company and its projects.
I was searching in my father's library trying to understand the essence of the 20th century -which revealed beautifully in the books- when I found a shelf with all the Islamic researches at that time; Muhammed Qutub, Al-Ghazali, etc.. Then I found a little booklet just like those on the shelves of hospitals' waiting rooms. It was published in Kuwait during the 1970s and it is called "Segregation" the first page in the book said that the aim of this issue is to make a women's college, I said wow!
And wondered all day long, how come a person spends a life time to make an idea comes into reality. How come he/she/they never had a single moment of doubt in this idea. What makes segregation, or any other dogma becomes the infrastructure of Utopia? And were there any discussions without an offensive/deffensive method?
Getting back to that shelf, I stared at one title with wonder, "The Future is to This Religion"; the sound of it felt very economic*. As if the only great thing that Islam gave us is its political system. sorry, but I cannot see "religion" in the title fits at all. People in the time when Islamic political power was ultimate, are becoming Muslims because Muslims' good manners, and because their traders do not steal. That means respect comes at the first place, and respect doesn't mean becoming polite, it means you don't impose your ideologies on a person as if they shouldn't but agree.
* my opinion is that politics is the show business of economy, so there is no much of a difference.
The 'Cultural' Selection
There are two parallel concepts over history that describe life; one which says it is deteriorating for the previous generations are higher in class and race-and psychologically we always encounter nostalgic old men or women to the "better past"-, and another which says that survival is for the better as it is explained in the evolution theories such as the natural selection, adaptations or the genetic drifts. Another example to that can be explained socially as the sudden change in a group of people from uncivilized to civilized according to a current standard of such description. I read such relationship in a book and was stimulated.
The following day, in the early morning, I was waiting for my colleague when I took this photo above. At the same evening, I attended a lecture which started with the early European perceptions of Damascus, and how there were lots of flaws and inaccurate determinations and facts either illustrated in maps or drawn on canvases. the lecture ended with photos of the "remains" which very much reminded me of the evolution theories which made it a sensual exploration of thought.
The remains shown in the recent pictures were very fragmented, yet they identify virtual lines. The remains have different positions and value in the city of Damascus nowadays, but everyone is saying that it is a deterioration of culture. I see it more as a deterioration in realization, because even the images of the past are struggling manuscripts from the memory of geographers or explorers. and then real facts of natural deterioration of certain places in the city caused from fire or earthquakes. Then comes different eras and functions in the city that assert some new configurations.
Once "realization" overcomes the highly judged as "deterioration", the term then will transit into the recent vision in a better understanding, and therefore a better description than "good" and "bad" will emerge. Consequently, what is visually sensed as bad is invalid, as long as reason is our good. The bad therefore is a hyper active sensor for the good.
The displayed image is a practical exercise of such theory, when you see a blocked door, you really feel bad about the beautiful entrance to be treated in this manner; blocking it and ruining the overall shape of the building. In reaching the realization level you can view that whomever live inside the building couldn't care less about it or at least have thought in a logical valid way. in needing the air condition inside this old building they either have to dig a hole in the wall of the facade or find an opening, the building has no windows, so the other option is closing the door, to a little opening to allow for the unit.
and the world will always be additive, in both physical and virtual senses just like this door, it will always remain "a door" in our virtual mind added from the physical details like the steps , dimensions, and the border. Yet physically, another additive process is applied, which is "a door filled with bricks to allow for the window unit".
Thus photographers are not shooting weird or even ugly things because they are artists who find beauty in everything. It is a long process of realization that requires somethings in the world to be frozen for a while to be thought about longer than the moment they saw it.
The following day, in the early morning, I was waiting for my colleague when I took this photo above. At the same evening, I attended a lecture which started with the early European perceptions of Damascus, and how there were lots of flaws and inaccurate determinations and facts either illustrated in maps or drawn on canvases. the lecture ended with photos of the "remains" which very much reminded me of the evolution theories which made it a sensual exploration of thought.
The remains shown in the recent pictures were very fragmented, yet they identify virtual lines. The remains have different positions and value in the city of Damascus nowadays, but everyone is saying that it is a deterioration of culture. I see it more as a deterioration in realization, because even the images of the past are struggling manuscripts from the memory of geographers or explorers. and then real facts of natural deterioration of certain places in the city caused from fire or earthquakes. Then comes different eras and functions in the city that assert some new configurations.
Once "realization" overcomes the highly judged as "deterioration", the term then will transit into the recent vision in a better understanding, and therefore a better description than "good" and "bad" will emerge. Consequently, what is visually sensed as bad is invalid, as long as reason is our good. The bad therefore is a hyper active sensor for the good.
The displayed image is a practical exercise of such theory, when you see a blocked door, you really feel bad about the beautiful entrance to be treated in this manner; blocking it and ruining the overall shape of the building. In reaching the realization level you can view that whomever live inside the building couldn't care less about it or at least have thought in a logical valid way. in needing the air condition inside this old building they either have to dig a hole in the wall of the facade or find an opening, the building has no windows, so the other option is closing the door, to a little opening to allow for the unit.
and the world will always be additive, in both physical and virtual senses just like this door, it will always remain "a door" in our virtual mind added from the physical details like the steps , dimensions, and the border. Yet physically, another additive process is applied, which is "a door filled with bricks to allow for the window unit".
Thus photographers are not shooting weird or even ugly things because they are artists who find beauty in everything. It is a long process of realization that requires somethings in the world to be frozen for a while to be thought about longer than the moment they saw it.
First Rainy Day!
A few minutes after midnight, coming back from a friend's wedding. Getting off the car, I looked as usual to the dark sky but it is not dark anymore. "Clouds! Clouds!" I said happily to my mother but she was a bit anxious because we're having some construction work on the roof. For the few last days I was having a sense of rain, even though the sky was clear. I felt so great that a sign of it appeared.
with the morning I woke up and went to my mother's window, I looked to the sky and said: "Cloudy day!".
"Rainy day!" said my mother, I looked to the ground and wow! the beautiful wet ground. so excited that I wanted to dance. I went out to our courtyard to smell the scent of rain, and then to the roof. I love the white sky!
I feel myself altogether.
Even though my mother was anxious yesterday, she seems in a wonderful mood loving the weather and opening all the windows..
Happy Rain for all..
with the morning I woke up and went to my mother's window, I looked to the sky and said: "Cloudy day!".
"Rainy day!" said my mother, I looked to the ground and wow! the beautiful wet ground. so excited that I wanted to dance. I went out to our courtyard to smell the scent of rain, and then to the roof. I love the white sky!
I feel myself altogether.
Even though my mother was anxious yesterday, she seems in a wonderful mood loving the weather and opening all the windows..
Happy Rain for all..