Home > Author > Malak El Halabi
41 " She is the woman that contradicts Simone de Beauvoir's saying "One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman." She is the woman that makes your tooth pain seem like a trivial matter in comparison to the heartaches she causes as she deliberately passes by your side. She is the woman that makes your throat feel swollen and your tie to suddenly seem too tight. She is the woman that is able to take you to the seven heavens with a whisper; straight to cloud number nine.. She is the woman that erases all other women unintentionally and becomes without demanding the despot of your heart. She is the woman that sends you back and forth to purgatory and resurrects you with each unintended touch. She is the woman that will ask of you to burn Rome just to collect for her a handful of dust. "
― Malak El Halabi
42 " There are nights that ask rhetorical questions. There are nights that demand immediate answers. And then, there are nights, where you forget your own name... There are nights where you lose conscience of where your body ends or begins....Those are my favorite. "
43 " This is the last time we have breakfast together:our warm coffee mugs on the kitchen tableour cold bare feet on the blue tile "
44 " أخشىسأذهب للتسبح قليلاً.أخشى أن لا أعود..الأمواج تغازلني وتدعوني للعشاء دوماً.أخشى أن أوافق على ملاقتهن..أخشى أن أذهب..أخشى أن لا اعود..سأذهب للركض قليلاً .أخشى أن لا اعود..الغيوم تنده اسمي باستمرار.أخشى ان ألبّي نداءاتهن..اخشى ان أذهب يا أمي..أخشى أن لا اعود.. "
― Malak El Halabi ,
45 " خلف كلَ تذكرة سفر يرقد وطن لم يُؤمَن به كفاية. وطن لم يُحَبّ كفاية. وطن لم تُمَد له أيّ من أيادي العون.خلف كلَ تذكرة سفر ينام وطن لم يوقظه أحد من أبنائه. أبنائه النيام على عجزٍ، من كثر ما استغرقوا فيه بان لهم مستعصياً كمرض مخفي.خلف كل تذكرة سفر وطن يستغيث. وطن لا يكف عن السعال. وطن كلّ من سمع لهاثه، دار له ظهره غير مبالياً.خلف كلَ تذكرة سفر، وطن نتجاهله هرباً، نتجاهله كي لا نرى جروحه، كي لا نتألم لألمه، كي لا نركع أمامه ململمين جروحاً قمنا باقناع أنفسنا أنّها لا تعنينا، كي لا نلطخ أيدينا بدماء أسميناها "دماء غيرنا."خلف كلَ تذكرة سفر، خلاص مؤقت وساعة رملية تقيس الوقت وتعاتب. نعم، تعاتب وتذكرنا بوطن لم نهرع لنجدته سوياً، وطن لم نقم باعطاء أنفسنا لأجله حتّى شرف المحاولة. "
46 " أنا أعتذر. و لأوّل مرّةٍ أشعرُ بسخرية الاعتذارِ. و أشعر أنّ خطابي فارغ و أنّ اللغة, حتّى اللغة شعرت بالمرارِ. أردت أن أجلب لكِ باقة وردٍ عساني أختبأ ورائها ككّل الجبناء. عساني أخفي خلف احمرار الورد خجلي و احمراري. فما أسخفني و ما أغباني.. أنا كسرت المحبة كما أوراقُ تشرين تنكسر و استغربت لماذا لم يرحب بي حين وطأت قدمايَ الدارِ. أنا شنقت المحبة على حبل طويل من بلاغتي و ما كان الكاتب سوى خَنجري الدامي. أعتذر برغم بساطة اعتذاري. أعتذر برغم الاختصارِ. فأنا قتلت أنقى ما في وجداني و لا عذراً لصاحب القرارِ.. "
47 " اكتب لي قصيدة الطير الذي كان يخشى الطيرانوالغصن المحبّ الذي لم ينفك يردّد له بصمتٍ:لا تتأخر بالمكوث هنا يا ولدي... "
48 " كيف ليَ أن أكتب قصيدة تخدش وجه العالموتدير دفّة القمر؟ "
49 " رجلٌ في خريف العمرشعره رماديّ وأشعثكحياتي...يقفتحت شمسٍ لا تمسّهتحت مطرٍ لا يبلّلهوفي عيونه مئات الغيوممئات الغيومكي يمطر كلمةولا يقولهاداخل نظرته التي تلوح للحزنكباب مخلوعترقد حياتي. "
50 " Peut être que j'avais besoin de lui pour me montrer que même les anges n'échappent pas à la guillotine. "
51 " He warned me of the lion's den and I am glad I didn't listen. "
52 " He tried his best to save her but she was deeply damaged. Her soft edges became sharp blades, the moment he got too close to her heart. He tried his best to love her but she was beyond scarred. She mistook his love for possession, his care for obsession and all the words he gently whispered to her in between as accusations. So she fled with her heart and his. She fled because that's the only thing she was good at. She didn't think she was worthy of love. Not after everything that happened to her. Not after everyone she deeply cared about was taken from her, one by one. Love betrayed her before. It surely will betray her this time too. So she betrayed love before it even did, not knowing that it would have never had. "
53 " Saturday evening, on a quiet lazy afternoon, I went to watch a bullfight in Las Ventas, one of Madrid's most famous bullrings. I went there out of curiosity. I had long been haunted by the image of the matador with its custom made torero suit, embroidered with golden threads, looking spectacular in his "suit of light" or traje de luces as they call it in Spain. I was curious to see the dance of death unfold in front of me, to test my humanity in the midst of blood and gold, and to see in which state my soul will come out of the arena, whether it will be shaken and stirred, furious and angry, or a little bit aware of the life embedded in every death. Being an avid fan of Hemingway, and a proponent of his famous sentence "About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after,” I went there willingly to test myself. I had heard atrocities about bullfighting yet I had this immense desire to be part of what I partially had an inclination to call a bloody piece of cultural experience. As I sat there, in front of the empty arena, I felt a grandiose feeling of belonging to something bigger than anything I experienced during my stay in Spain. Few minutes and I'll be witnessing a painting being carefully drawn in front of me, few minutes and I will be part of an art form deeply entrenched in the Spanish cultural heritage: the art of defying death. But to sit there, and to watch the bull enter the arena… To watch one bull surrounded by a matador and his six assistants. To watch the matador confronting the bull with the capote, performing a series of passes, just before the picador on a horse stabs the bull's neck, weakening the neck muscles and leading to the animal's first loss of blood... Starting a game with only one side having decided fully to engage in while making sure all the odds will be in the favor of him being a predetermined winner. It was this moment precisely that made me feel part of something immoral. The unfair rules of the game. The indifferent bull being begged to react, being pushed to the edge of fury. The bull, tired and peaceful. The bull, being teased relentlessly. The bull being pushed to a game he isn't interested in. And the matador getting credits for an unfair game he set. As I left the arena, people looked at me with mocking eyes. Yes, I went to watch a bull fight and yes the play of colors is marvelous. The matador’s costume is breathtaking and to be sitting in an arena fills your lungs with the sands of time. But to see the amount of claps the spill of blood is getting was beyond what I can endure. To hear the amount of claps injustice brings is astonishing. You understand a lot about human nature, about the wars taking place every day, about poverty and starvation. You understand a lot about racial discrimination and abuse (verbal and physical), sex trafficking, and everything that stirs the wounds of this world wide open. You understand a lot about humans’ thirst for injustice and violence as a way to empower hidden insecurities. Replace the bull and replace the matador. And the arena will still be there. And you'll hear the claps. You've been hearing them ever since you opened your eyes. "
54 " كان لا بدَّ من السير الى الهاوية... وكان لا بدَّ أيضاً من الركض باتجاهها... ففي أسفل كلِّ هاوية طفلاً يشبهك قليلاً... يضحك برعونة ويتمتم: الرشد فخٌ أقنعوك به. ابقَ كما أنتَ. ابقَ كما أنتَ... متهوراً. ايّاك أن تكبر. "
55 " كان بودّيماتت السنابل.أرض الله تحتضرُ..في يدك، وردة شهية تدعوني لغيثٍ منتظرُ..كان بودّي.. "
56 " كان الوطن الذي اجتاح كل ابتساماتي في الغربة. "
57 " أشهد ألّا رجلاً استطاع ترويضي الّا أنتَ.. "
58 " دعني أحرق الماضي بجمر عينيك.. دعني أحرقه ورقة ورقة.. "
59 " You are to my soul what God is to a mother praying for her child at the altar. "
60 " There is a hole in the heart called "absence". You live in it my dear. "