My home town, not my homeland

I should be entirely ashamed of my feelings. I should repent the way I feel.

I was driving back to the my home town, to see my family. I do that every other weekend.

The minute I entered my hometown, instead of feeling nostalgic I felt alienated. I cursed my home town.

I cursed my home town.

Kos o5tek yaft ‘lnsari.

I cursed my home town.

I hate you.

I hate everything here.

(Except my family,

and my childhood memories.)

My home town…

Where people spy on each other.

Where people talk shit about each other.

Where people kill each other… over money and honor.

My home town…

where people are extremely religious, and live back in the 15th century.

And where girls, my age, younger and older, look the fucking same.

Same hair, same jeans, same t-shirt.

And I look hideous in my sweats and my Amsterdam t-shirt.

With my untamed hair, and brain.

I flew outside of the city to find another place in which I can feel comfortably alienated.

 

March 3, 2018

It was part of the fantasy

“For some it wasn’t perfect, for others it was totally wrong, for me it was the fantasy …”

Me, seven years ago, after a college Theatre performance

It was seven years ago, when I was a child. I was naive, and I wanted to learn. I was eager and passionate, and I had no idea how to learn. I’d known I was a special one, and I needed to exploit my distinguished personality.

I was at the wrong place, the wrong stage, in front of the wrong audience. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was constantly surrounded by the wrong people. People who didn’t understand my essence or my desires and passions.

I imagined myself performing my own fictional identities. And I had some of them, most of them were beautiful and pure.

 

We thought we knew everything

Time goes by and you look back at who you were back then, back in the good old days. And it was us, a group of passionate, eager and ambitious Literature students. We studied literature, and we wanted to know everything about it. We wanted to explore the world through literature. We read, analysed and discussed. We argued. We lived in what we read. We devoted our days and nights, our vacations and our hectic times, to only be with our books. We were obsessed and sick.

We thought we knew everything. We thought we are taking over the world. Nothing stopped us from wanting to be the legislators of the world. In our worlds we were already kings, and gods.

We thought we knew everything. We thought that whatever Literature said to be true, was real for us. Literature was our religion. We prayed for poets and authors, they were our gods.

We didn’t want to live in peace, we wanted to live in poetry and remain wistful.

We thought we knew everything. And everyone around us was ignorant and unfortunate. We thought we were the lucky ones, the chosen ones. We are already in the quest of immortality, and ready to rule the world.

We were pure evil. And looking back at the good old days, we were purely naive.

 

 

Autumn Agony (unfinished)

– October 14, 2017

When it’s the beginning of the year
The autumn leaves turn into flames
And fall off.
No longer part of their home
Their grand, erect, warm and green home.
They loved their home.
Their home carried them
Protected them
And nourished them.
And now they’re part of this earth,
Wandering to find a shelter
A corner, or a cave to hide in.
Until spring rises again.

The autumn leaves might find a place.
While my agony will remain the same.
Spring will come after few months,
Where I’ll be the same
Though perhaps wearing something different.
I wake up every morning,
Look out the window
At the autumn leaves
Feel the autumn chill
smell the wet ground
breathe the agony that been haunting me.
And I think to myself,
Why does it feel the same?
Every single year?

It prepares me for wintertime.
For December and January.
For Christmas and New Year.
And I have to force myself to live through it,
And enjoy every little bit of it.
And then go home,
Lie on my bed,
Sleep through the rain,
Shut my tears,
And my eyes,
And fall asleep.
To wake up the next day.
And get up and live through it.
Live through every day…
Live through every moment of agony.
Until it leaves me for a bit.

 

My October

A poem I wrote three years ago.

Strawberry Fields

It happens early

or just earlier than  expected.

The first drops of rain

I learned to hate through the years.

But this is the time

my own month

to feel cheer.

It will take up another year

to bring back the heat

I had during summer time.

I wrote songs

of love and freedom

while looking at and feeling

that stormy warm sea.

The fall and its beginnings

brand new beginnings

of fear

anxiety

and excitement.

And that dreadful

wet

drops of rain…

symbolizing hope.

What hope?

the hope of return?

the hope of freedom?

They are  nothing but gentle,

frail and ill.

This is my month though

it will forever bring surprises.

Some of them joyous

others are dire.

October 4th, 2014

beautiful-backgrounds-of-nature

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It’s Christmas Today -a poem from 2012

Dear readers,

I would like to wish you all a very merry Christmas and a happy and hopeful new year.

I would like to take this opportunity to share a poem I wrote and share every single year on Christmas, just because it means a lot to me. I wrote it in times of agony and distress.

A lot has changed in the past 4 years, but still, this poem brings me back to those old times of desolation.

It’s Christmas today
There should be snow
There should be peace
harmony
and love.

Where is our great friend Santa?
coming from the far away land
to give us what we want
and what we need?

Where is our old and dear friend
Jesus Christ?
Who once came from the dead,
and promised to save our souls?
He is old enough now to keep his promises,
right?

Where is that day?
the twenty fifth of December,
that used to carry our jolliest dreams?

Where are our dreams?
Are they still lost in the fountain of time?
Or are they still stuck in our surrendered souls?

Where are our hopes, faith and passion?

It’s Christmas today.
No one wishes to be alone
yet no one wishes to be with the beloved ones.
There are no beloved ones.
We are alone…

It’s the end of our time.
The end of our eternity.
A new Millennium is to be born,
And our great Lord knows what it carries.

On this Christmas day,
We will leave our lands,
and join our enemies.

On this Christmas day,
we will leave our hopes and dreams
to join our godforsaken fate.

December 25th 2012

Unsent Letters

We all carry a package filled with feelings. Whenever we meet a certain person, fall in love, or even just like a person; romantically or platonically. Sometimes, even at work, or at school, or anywhere, we meet people, we build a certain kind of friendship, relationship or even hostility towards or with any certain person. We carry feelings: of hatred, disgust, disappointment, friendship, admiration, compassion, love, heartbreak, etc.

Sometimes, we fail to tell people how we feel. We find ourselves tongue tied, embarrassed, shy, afraid, or even angry, and we think of avoiding doing to do anything irrational.

We are unable to show them how we feel.

For my defense, I always say how I feel. At the exact moment, after a short while, or even after a very long while.
I’m old fashioned, I write letters. Pages of feelings, thoughts, and ramblings.
I send those letters, mostly via e-mail. And I wait…
For a response, understanding, compassion… or simply nothing.

I reached a stage where I can no longer say what I feel. Especially after considering the consequences. The fear of rejection,to be misunderstood, to be pitied, or even he fear of knowing the truth.

I end up writing letters, many letters, in my head, in my journal, in my “Drafts” e-mail folder, on papers, in my poems, on my blog, on my phone, anywhere, and I never send them. They’re never delivered. And that specific person I had my heart to utter, never received a word from me.

It’s like having the ability to sing, yet I’m too stage frightened I can never even dare to go up the stage and sing the music I love.

It’s scary… to keep those unsent letters. But I made a folder, in my head, to save all of them. And never ever having the courage to send them.

They will be part of my memory. My journal. I’ll look at them in ten years, and I’ll either delete them for good, burn them, or just just contemplate whether it’s too late to send them, at last.

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The love song of J. Asshole Profuck

Let us go then you and I
Where we left our hopes and dreams
getting drunk in that local bar
a friendly one, like most of them,
made us lose our conscious.

We can go outside and praise the sun
we can go to bed and forget the day
Yet, you need to wake up early
To leave me in peace
With my toys and all of my paint

You go out each night
To fuck around like a whore living in a park
You live in your own red light district
And then you drag me with you
Believing I belong to the darkness of your streets.

If I have to drink again
It will be without you
Provoking you to lie to me again
And again
Until your lies become my own reality
And your own as well.

The more you lie and make up things
You create our own reality
Filled with lies and dreams
Believing we belong together…
But the only place we belong together
is the one-night-stands
(all of them)
you imagine you had with me.

And indeed there will be time
to lie more and create
a world where you live in love
and passion
There will be time and there will be time
you will constantly say
until you realize that you have only said
there is no fucking time
for us to meet and clear everything
between us.

There will be time for me
to ask a question I never dared to ask
Do
I
Dare disturb your world again?
And I will.
I will disturb you till the end
because I’m obsessed
with everything you had with me
and everything I thought would happen.

You held my hands and said
“you’re beautiful.”
While we both know I looked pale
and wretched that night.

Yet, I believed you saw through me
and that beauty is what you,
and you alone,
can see.

But indeed there will be time
to believe again
and dream again and again
that you died and had finally gone.
There will be time
to live again and be content
far away from you.

May, 2016

(some phrases in the poem and even the title are based on/inspired by expressions from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. by T.S. Eliot.)

 

Dignity – Arwa

A short story I wrote three years ago. It’s amazing how things become relevant after three years, and even more real.
It needs rewriting of course.

Straketch

© shudder-stock.deviantart © shudder-stock.deviantart

She sat in darkness looking at his frail body. He was still unconscious. He looked so miserable and faint. His face was calm but weak. If he woke up he won’t be able to move, he was tied all together. She had to tie him very carefully and make sure he wouldn’t fight or hurt her when he would wake up. She looked at his naked body, it wasn’t as attractive as it was before, but all these images were in her head. His body looked incredibly feeble and lacked all beauty and charm. Or maybe, she only convinced herself that he looked pathetic, after all, at the moment, she had too much of hate inside her.

She thought her actions were insane, for she had no right to tie him down and torture him. She should have been obedient, keep away from him, and forget him for…

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قصة حيفا ترويها شواهدها

شعر كتبه صديقي العزيز الشّاعر والكاتب والصّحفي شاهين نصّار
شعر عن مدينة حيفا، لمن عرفها وسكن بها، عرف قيمتها
a poem written by m y dear friend, the poet, writer and journalist Shahin Nassar. A poem about Haifa, the city that only those who know it(her) and lived in it (her) knows how much it is worth.

مش عادي

في حيفا قصص كثيرة يحاكيها الزمان 

وروايات أخرى مخفية عن الأعيان

هناك حكايا مخبأة بين الأزقة والجدران

إنها لمدينة يعجب لها القادم من أي مكان

في حيفا، حدائق معلقة أنماها إنسان

جنة على الأرض ملأها الحنان

ويقين أنها كونية في كل زمان

لكن في مقابرها تخفي شجن

على ماضٍ كان لها مرصوص البنيان

ومجد تليدٍ يولد من قلب الدمار

  • * * * * *

شواهد حيفا تحكي أحداثا لا تعرف البدء

والنكبة لم تضع لها حدا ولا إنتهاء

تقصّ على مرآى العابرين منها افتراء

النظام السياسي الجديد الذي حطّ وسط الصحراء

بمعايير عصرنا شواهد قلّة قبل الاجتراء

ورغم شحّتهم، يزهو فيها الأبطال الشهداء

وعميدهم القسّام في بلد الشيخ يأبى الدمار

  • * * * * *

هناك لن يبكي الطفل على جد الجدِّ

ولن يعثر الباحث عن أسلافه بجدِّ

على إجابة عمّا حلّ بمصير الأعيادِ

ومع ذلك، قد يجد هناك من يشهدِ

على ازدهارٍ نما من قلب الدمار

  • * * *…

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Stop Asking

How dare you question anything? How dare you believe others over your own original beliefs?

How dare you question the people who raised you and taught you how to live? How dare you think on your own?

You’re human, you’re not allowed to think. You’re not allowed to question anything. You’re only allowed to eat, drink and follow the rules.

If you want to stop being human and become a devil, go ahead, become that devil we all feared you’d become. We’ll try to stop you of course, we’ll try to burn you or bring you back to the right track. Otherwise, the supreme being, the ultimate power, the God Almighty will be the one who will punish you.

We’ll be rewarded of course, because we’re trying our best to stop you. We’ll be even more rewarded if we succeed, and yes, we will.

So please stop. Stop this devilish act, and become a good human like us.

We’ll all lead you to the right path and make a better human being out of you. You’ll get everything you ever wanted. Everything you ever dreamed of. You’ll get it all. But you have to stop questioning, you have to stop asking. You have to stop thinking.

 

July 2015

 

 

One after another

Here it goes again
one lie after the other
And here they go again,
every single feeling I have left.

Just by walking down the street,
I see your lies,
in an empty carousel.
The history of only five years,
flashing in front my eyes,
in just a mere moment.
Those five years felt like only five weeks.
Of complete agony.

Here it goes again,
another feeling of betrayal.
Another feeling of ridicule
and ignorance.

Here it goes again,
another moment,
of complete emptiness.
Worthless words,
pointless plans.
Vanished
within your hollow bosom.

Here it goes again,
one lie after another,
covered with your illusory affections.

And here I lie again,
ready to forgive and forget,
like I’ve done repeatedly before.
Risking another chance
to be real with myself
and finally move on.

 

April 8, 2016