Diary
(3) My goat does not kill nor pray.. Ahmed Seif Hashed
My memoirs.. from the details of my life
(3)
My goat does not kill nor pray
Ahmed Seif Hashed
Our sheep were few, then their number increased, halal and still.. I nurtured the sheep, and I was a juvenile, or still a child touching with his dewy fingers the thresholds of life.. I have many stories with the sheep, and intimate relationships.. My mother and father’s sheep had a kingdom that filled my little world. Memories and details that have been proven more than fifty years ago, that they are impossible to fade and disappear, were not erased by sunset or forgotten..
Perhaps you find in some details of your life strange paradoxes that make those who hear you deny their existence.. but it is the truth that sometimes takes you by surprise, or we find it standing in front of us in the middle of the road, telling us to slow down.. in front of you is a slope..
I still remember to this day the names of the sheep that I nurtured – during different stages – I still remember their shapes and their stories and many details.. I remember “Hajab”, “Bayraq”, “Khars”, “Anab”, “Ghubra”, “Marsh” and “Sawad”. And “Hanna”, “Hamra”, “Nashm”, “Bahriya” and “Qadriya”.
How rich is the memory with some details, and how often it narrows so that it does not have the capacity to know the age of your son!!
The memory is still ignited with details of fifty years ago..some of them have become dark and hard to remember despite their recent era, although their distance from today is no more than a stone’s throw away..
In 2009, when the Swiss immigration and asylum judge asked me, in the “interview” interview, about the names and ages of my children, the question confused me as to what the answer is supposed to be obvious and known.. I fail to mention the names of my seven children, and I feel that some of them are flying like strays, so I return them, and others escape from my hands Like birds, some of them fall to the ground without I hear their sound or buzzing, and some of them swoop in and I remember them twice..
I further failed to determine the age of any of them, amid the astonishment of the judge, who likened us to a rabbit farm, when I resorted to a trick of sequencing them with a general difference between each one and the other… While the Palestinian translator was looking at me, pointing out that my face resembled that of President Saleh, And I did not see one of us having forty resemblances.. But I realized that the Yemenis are also similar in the eyes of the distant people, just like the Koreans, the Chinese and others..
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I still remember the goat “Hijab” the Laboon, and its body is larger than what is familiar and usual, and its origin is from an ancient Indian dynasty, or so it was said.. One day, she was hit by an “eye” and she died, or rather, so they claimed..!
I still remember “Kharas” or “Bayraq” and the rebellion of “Anab” and “Hanna” to which it applies, such as “Wherever Batteh puts him in”, Nashm “The Smart”, the blackness of the good, “Marsh” and “Bahriya” My poor mother’s sheep.. This was some of my little world that I live and belong to.
I remember the goat “Kharas”, which my mother gave me what was in its womb, in return for my interest in the family’s sheep, and my efforts in herding them.
The blind poet Bashar bin Burd said at the beginning of one of his poems: “O people, my ears for some neighborhood are in love… and the ear loves before the eye sometimes.” Captivating and captivating, from a child who wants his dream to have an existence that accommodates him and his great love..
I fell in love with “Bayraq” while she was still in her mother’s womb, in the process of formation, growing and growing little by little, and I watched her mother’s swollen belly every day, as a farmer waiting for the harvest, or as a child watching the dawn break on the night of Eid, and he hurried to darken him, to rejoice, to wear the new, and to be released Joy has its space and help it..
“Bayraq” came out of her mother’s womb to the front of the universe, as bright as the dewy morning.. Beautiful as a dull eye, black and white.. Her birth overwhelmed me with a joy that cannot accommodate all of existence.. The wretched “Bayraq” grew up without horns.. “Bayrak” does not like wars.. She is not tempted by a bully or a military parade.. Peaceful as a dove.. Her whiteness is as white as snow.. And when she grieves, her sadness is as black as a mourning garment.
I kept raising her and taking care of her.. I take care of her day by day.. I earned her from my perseverance, and I watered her from the sweat of the brow.. There is no suspicion of one king over another, no corruption is tainted by her, and there is no piety with the head of a devil.. Every day “Biraq” grew and grew, but it did not It burns a stage, it does not return us to the age of dinosaurs, it does not extend its hand to a murderer, it does not rob a suffering people, and it does not take the rights of a needy and needy.
Perhaps “Biraq” does not pray or hypocrisy, but it has the chastity that irrigates a country and its people with pure water.. It grows as God wanted it without making our days and months arbitrary, or using poison and drugs to enlarge it.. It grows slowly, and not as quickly as corruption in the states and provinces of princes’ militias. Wars.. just say without slandering or pretending, or make out of the grasshopper’s back feathers of pigeons and silk, and do not make art from the croaking of frogs..
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He follows..
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