Another Morning

Years and years ago, I was small, very small.
I was one of the children of the world who were born
and those who were not yet born.
One of those who fill the streets
alleys
neighborhoods
houses
the big and small towns
the villages that had been planted amid the mountains and valleys
with their thin stature and stunning looks
with their noise and playfulness that never end
and the war came from afar bearing
a miserable face
dark
with coarse features
and filled with phrases we could not read properly.
We were small children
good at playing with dolls and things
that other people made for us. And the war arrived
with other people from a place that history books did not mention
to us till today.

I looked at that war with bafflement and bewilderment.
It bore a face that differed from the faces of the men,
women
and the little ones that I know and do not know.

After a while
I heard my mother whisper to a woman who was passing
close to our home
that the men are joining the war on a faraway journey,
and the price for each one will be quite high if they decide
to join.
No one told me about that journey,
of how long it would be,
and where they would take the men,
and of when they would return.
My father did not tell me about it.
Perhaps
because the young should not be told about topics
that do not fit their age and their small size.

The day came when I asked my father,
as I clung tightly to his neck
with my sad little hands,
to stay with us
and not go with the rest.
I remember the tears, big and small
falling from my eyes and wetting my cheeks.
My father didn’t want those tears
he wanted only the calm look on his lips
as he dried my tears with a white handkerchief in his hand.
The matter ended as my beloved mother took me
in her arms as hot tears flowed from her eyes
and she whispered in my ears
lovely words of which I now recall little.
My father looked at us for a long time before he
bid each and every one of us goodbye
then calmly closed the door behind him
that was a far, faraway time, very far away
before my father joined the others, like many others.

Till today, every time I recall what happened
in those moments,
I hear the echo of my father’s footsteps
as he went further and further away to join the others.

The following morning when I woke up early, as is my habit,
I opened the window in my bedroom that
overlooks my beloved city.
That morning was very different,
the morning wore dark black clothes,
and on the face of the city itself was more sadness.
Her blue eyes
and the sky were covered with colorless clouds
that reached the faraway horizon.
The street near our house was almost devoid of men.
There were a lot of women, the elderly
and young who were selling their endless possessions.

It was another morning and it seemed
to have more of a miserable face than any other time.
The passersby went here and there,
with strange looks that covered their doleful faces.

My mother opened the door of my little room
where I was hiding among its many walls for days on end.
It seemed I was expecting her to do so
and I don’t recall how I rushed toward her,
but my small body stuck to her arms, as was my habit
whenever I felt in need of some bread
or love
or some warm whispers to wet
my hot, angry, disturbed forehead.

After all those years,
I have become a tall man
with fierce eyes
a pointed nose like desert eagles
rough hands
with legs that race with the wind and always win
and a body that never bends from hardships and
misfortunes
and a heart that holds women, wives
lovers
companions
and countless others.

I still remember what happened
after the passing of all those days and years,
and I still wait for my father’s return
to bury my head in his warm embrace
and encircle his neck with my rough hands
and he would whisper
words I had not heard him say
for a long, long time.

Years and years ago I was small, very small.
I was one of the children of the world who were born,
and those who were not yet born.
One of those who fill the streets
alleys
neighborhoods
houses
big and small towns
the villages amid the mountains and valleys
with their thin stature and stunning looks
with their noise and playfulness that never end.

Then the war came from afar bearing
a miserable face
dark
with coarse features
and filled with phrases we could not read properly.
We were small children
good at playing with dolls and things
that other people made for us. And the war arrived
with other people from a place that history books
did not mention to us till today.

Translation from the Arabic