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“A fairy” adores my father!!
Ahmed Seif Hashed
When I was young – I don’t remember what age – maybe six or less or a little more than that, I was afraid, and lived in the horror of the jinn and darkness… I hear my mother talking about the “aldagnh” jinn Close to her family’s old house, and about the women of the jinn who had their breast wrapped and pulled on their back.. And about her brother, who, in the book “Shams al-Maarif” tried to possess and bring in the jinn, and almost went mad when he heard the jinn running on the roof of his unit and his isolation in “jalb” “shaeb” “mojr”.
I also heard my father talking about the jinn, and telling some stories about them… the beautiful and slender fairy who stops cars late at night in the “Aqabat of Aden”, then rides with the driver as she wears perfume and magic, and in it, whenever he attracts and deceives, the driver discovers at the end The matter is with the feet of a donkey..and sometimes it suddenly disappears from the car, so the driver is shocked by this disappearance and goes crazy..and the story of the women who are at the well spraying water in the dark of the night with buckets, and he hears the bribes with their inhale and exhale, and as soon as he approaches, they disappear suddenly, and he is terrified. They are many stories that I used to hear that a child of my young age could not hear.
I was shivering with fear, and lonely tunnels were opening in the wall of my silence..I imagined the world of the jinn, and I was afraid that they would take me from my mother into a world of terror and unknown..Every single word in every story would quickly find its impact on my consciousness and an earthquake-sized impact occurred in it.. They narrate it in my mind quickly and astonishingly, as if I were a transmitter, or a radar that picks up fast for a terrible horror..
Those tales carried me far away.. They transported me to an unknown and alienated from my little world.. When I heard these tales, I was living in the mind of a child, and my little heart was beating inside me until it almost cracked from the inside.. What is terrifying and frightening.. However, I was trying to conceal what was burning inside me, and conceal what I witnessed of fear that shakes me from the inside as I fold it and hide it in a discreet silence..
I was feeling lonely, afraid and terrified while they were talking about jinn and demons.. The darkness frightened me, and the stairs of our old house were dark, and it twisted around the pole of the house like a wide black snake, except for a faint glimmer of light that slipped weakly to the staircase from two small slots in the wall of the house..
When I went up or down the stairs alone, I would run as fast as the wind, without turning back, until I survived, and to prevent me from being caught by a genie or a fairy or touching a demon, I thought that the jinn were hiding and waiting for me in the dark corners of the stairs of the house.. At that young age, I struggled daily with the jinn, stairs, and darkness.. Going up or down the stairs on my own if necessary, made me feel that I had escaped from the jinn as soon as I crossed them..
***
And when I moved to our new house, which was built in stages, and that day was a shop above which there was a diwan, the door of which is still open, or without a door, except for a bundle of curtains that are removed at dawn, and returned to it before bedtime or shortly after night begins, and in its entrance there was a small kitchen in the corner..
We used to sleep in the diwan that day and leave the lantern lit dimly during sleep.. My father and I awoke in panic from the bed at the sound of my mother, and she rushes to us for help and crying out and says in confusion and hastily: “kharbi kharbi khirbi.., gun.. gun.”
My mother saw a hand throwing little rocks at us, from the side of the stairwell beside our little kitchen.. My mother had seen a face disguised as a ghost, but it was not a ghost.. She came close to guessing the reality, but she didn’t hit it.. She came to us terrified and her mind was about to fly with terror and terror.
My father jumped from under his quilt like a demon at the sound of my terrified mother’s voice.. I don’t know how he was able to gather the scattered pieces of his mind in such a confusing moment.. As for me, I was stunned and filled with panic as if a descending came upon us from the sky.. I didn’t comprehend what happened until after everyone calmed down..
My father rushed his semi-automatic rifle in the direction my mother was pointing at with both hands. As for my mother’s words, I no longer understood them because of the great confusion that was like… The strange thing is that the ghost was the only one who was more coherent, calm and anchored..
My father put the barrel of a gun in the side of what seemed to me to be a ghost in the clothes of a masked man, while the ghost in a female voice was flowing with nostalgia and femininity.. He was trying to calm us down and make us understand that he is “so-and-so” and introduce us to what our hearts reassure him..
We discovered that she is a woman who exudes femininity.. graceful, very beautiful and adventurous.. She wears men’s clothing in the dark of the night.. However, to this day my memory can recall and recall her voice that used to flow with love, longing and eagerness.. Her height is wide and she is like a sea breeze, and in her chest is love and a whisper. And many words.
Then my mother went crazy for my father..Perhaps the first time I witnessed my father weak in front of my mother begging and pleading with her..My mother set up a court for my father that began sternly, while my father was defending himself patiently, begging, and in strong faith so that he could turn her night into a resounding scandal..
My father was defending himself that he was acquitted of the charge, otherwise there would have been a date when what he wanted and wanted away from my mother’s eyes.. He knew that what happened could turn into a scandal among people, so he mobilized arguments, evidence and hardened oaths to dispel an accusation that almost turned into a scandal. She was dressed and a flagrant offence.. In the trial, I heard my father accusing so-and-so of the people that he pushed her to do what she did, and she boldly asked him for what he gave her yesterday.. She says it without shame and demands it as if it were some of her right.. That woman was a captivating beauty, my father was also beautiful. And more beautiful than his owner..
That night, my father obtained half of his innocence or a little more than it, while the rest remained jealousy and doubt about my father for a long time.. The most important thing is that my mother that night blamed the matter with my father after a hasty trial that prevented my mother from leaving her home and escaping to her family’s house, and this was at the beginning of the exposure and the possibility imminent..
But the lover continued to be attached to my father and to propose marriage to him, and to try to appease my mother for such a marriage and coexisting with him, but she did not win my father’s approval, and after despair and refusal, I sang:
“Clear the body, perfume in the bottle*** I will love you, love what he wants, nor marry him
***
And the wonder remained.. What a brave lover, and a night haunted by the burning love of its woes.. A love journey from jelly and explosion to the emergence of an existence that challenges nothingness.. Greater than this existence is the birth of creation..
Beauty crosses the borders of death to meet the one we love and adore.. a temptation worthy of our crossing, and a sin like knowledge worthy of sacrifice.. we are the victims of our existence.. How can a butterfly see all this light without flying into it and committing suicide?
I have always wished that “ghosts” would be like this beautiful, lover.. I wish they lurked for us every night and darkness.. I wished that you would increase in longing and eagerness, and visit us every night to our shrines with frenzy and amazement.. Without doors or appointments.. And more than that, I wished that you would live in our homes. Throughout our dark nights, we stay in her heart all hours of the day..
This dull love and sumptuous beauty, increases the existence with joy for the Lord of this miracle. We say it in the voice of a choking protester no matter how much you pretend to throw “ghosts” with all the boldness and charges, they are at their worst if we assume they are true, a thousand times better than what some human beings do to us.
Love and longing challenged death and what was attached to danger.. An adventure disguised in the night of his suit. Crossing choked to reach those we love. Love risks with its owner. Love challenged the can of scandal, shooting death and death penalty by throwing stones. The spirit of Christ, who said, “Who was one of you without sin. Throw it with a stone.”
Peace to ghosts whose existence is practiced by kingdoms that love them from the beginning of the night to the end. Peace to her as she sneaks like breezes under coats and quilts. A fragrant greeting with love, flower and fragrance And masquerading as peace to cross the minefields of the eyes. And the meeting without dates is more surprising and surprising.
Welcome, the ghosts of love at the beginning of the night or in his face. Under his jacket or in his coat. In the night prayer or you find him. I do not limit God’s grace, but I just hate war, and I compare jars. War is a cosmic crime that kills all blessings. She shed blood, kill life, harden love, and offend this great existence.
In these days when she eats herself and our time with her, we are looking for love, so we don’t even find it in our dreams and our dark nights. Our days are full of wars and cemeteries Rivers of blood, tears, hunger and famine reached with our hearts throats. We are defending existence, accumulating life, love and age, and resisting our hunger, our annihilation and this pandemic death.
We do not deny grace, but we protest, pray and we are wet. We beg for the rattle and the twig of death, asking for the survival of our children from the ignorance of The Armram, and the invasion of a wide death that threatens their existence, offspring and noise. Famine is a disaster that engulfs us every day with repetition and cruelty, and a deadly siege from all sides and towards its hands with the power of iron and death on our tired throats, so that the world does not hear our sorrows, hunger and tragedies.
In the voice of patience accumulated in the face of this absurdity, and this fierce war, we call it a rock-breaking voice: stop the war. Let’s live. Let us love and love; the process of love, no matter how much it is over-loved, remains without war a million and a million times.. Criminals who facilitate murder, shed blood, disenfranage rights, and drive death into a trade that is not a trade, not the one who burned in the midst of love and delicious love.
“Stop the war” is a cry we launch from our depths as we carry our coffins on our tired children. We beg from the midst of the hustle and bustle of death, and this war is a disaster that does not want to end. A world of enchanting and rocky conscience, but perhaps our bet on the remnants of a dewy conscience does something in the face of widespread death and this war, destruction and great destruction.
I have not disbelieved and hunger is infidel, I have not denied grace in night or day, and war mashes joints and bones. But I protest bitterly to those who carry their coffin and look their soul at those who see the food in their brother’s eye and do not see the wood in their eyes. Whoever sees love as a crime the size of heaven, and sees war as jihad, forgiveness, pride and sadness.
***
- Photo is an expression of Miss Universe 2021
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