Words

You were the first to respond. Your words were simple and direct but heartwarming to someone like me who had just come in out of the cold. I couldn’t explain it, but I was suddenly hooked. I came back, week after week looking for more. Over the years and across the miles no one had spoken so gently but left me feeling so secure. Shukran. I was warm and comfortable in this new little garden of mine even though, back in those days, everything felt strange everywhere else. Life seemed lost between two worlds.

I often thought of you as I sat in the courtyard. The first time you were away, and your words never came, I felt the void. It was surprising to me but that’s when I knew. Meshta’etlak. The water in the fountain sang the same song it always had but the tune was different. I splashed in it, like a child, and watched as the jubilant droplets formed endless ripples. I watched the ripples merge, separate into new ripples, and then merge again. This would be our story.

Paperless letters fluttered through my dreams. Penned opuses of love and life, addressed to you and to me. You extended your hand and we walked through the pages, admiring the verses, breathing the poetry. You carried me over the broken edges, the rough patches that needed mending. I caressed the songs in your soul. Whispered to them to join mine. It was those lyrics, words like black, silken ribbons of emotion, memory, and hope that fluttered, care-free in the breezes. Banners of our hearts. Pennants of devotion. Bhebak.

Sacrifice and Peace

Happy Eid al-Adha.

To all my readers and friends who are celebrating.

From my family to yours.

Mariyah

Stolen

Hello dear readers,
I have not posted in a very long time, I know, and I do hope to again soon. For now my concerns are with my country, my people, and especially my family.

Writing this post was made necessary by an unscrupulous blogger. Back in September I chose to downgrade from having my own address on WordPress (http://mariyahsblog.com) to using my original WordPress address, the one you are visiting now. Today I received a message from Toot that I had been featured, which confused me since I haven’t been writing. I soon discovered that someone had swooped in and started using my old address, my name, and my byline to publish under. Luckily the posts are simply about health and not an offensive topic, but the fact remains that they have essentially stolen ME!

I’m very upset by this and am hoping that WordPress support will be able to assist me in, at least, forcing this blogger, whoever they are, to stop using my name. If any of you are familiar with copyright laws and if they extend to a name, I would certainly appreciate your assistance in the matter. In fact, any advice on how to fight this would be wonderful.

I miss you all dearly and hope you are safe and well.
Mariyah

A Damascene Moon

A amazing lunar eclipse graced our skies at around 10 pm last night – or least that is when it seemed to become most visible. Many of us, eager to witness this wonderful event, found the highest or most open point attainable to us and watched with pure delight. I sat on the rooftop of my friend’s apartment with a dozen others. We watched the moon rise, bright and full, and then slowly darken as the shadow of the earth obscured the rays of the sun. I lay back and gazed at the traces of the moon that were left in a starlit sky. It’s ghostly aura reminded me of one of my favourite poems by my favourite poet, the great Nizar Qabbani – A Damascene Moon. In English, only excerpts are available, unfortunately, but the part that is translated is probably, to most, the most stunning part of the poem. Below is that excerpt, first in English, then in Arabic.

After seeing what I have this past night, I find it regrettable that it wasn’t something that the entire world could witness first hand. I supposed that is part of the wonder of these events. One thing I do know, however, is that everyone  everywhere with vision can appreciate the magic of moonlight and it has been this way for millennia. As long as people have been on earth, the moon has been the subject of science, art, songs, prose, and beautiful, beautiful poetry…

Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover
On my brow, a rose and a book
For I am the Damascene whose profession is passion
Whose singing turns the herbs green
A Damascene moon travels through my blood
Nightingales . . . and grain . . . and domes
From Damascus, jasmine begins its whiteness
And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent
From Damascus, water begins . . . for wherever
You lean your head, a stream flows
And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings
Over Sham . . . and a poet is a voyager
From Damascus, love begins . . . for our ancestors
Worshipped beauty, they dissolved it, and they melted away
From Damascus, horses begin their journey
And the stirrups are tightened for the great conquest
From Damascus, eternity begins . . . and with her
Languages remain and genealogies are preserved
And Damascus gives Arabism its form
And on its land, epochs materialize

يا تونس الخضراء جئتك عاشقاً ………….. وعلى جبيني وردة وكـتــــــــاب

إني الدمشقي الذي احترف الهوى…………… فأخضوضرت لغنائه الأعشاب

أحرقت من خلفي جميع مراكبي……………ان الهوى ان لا يكون إيـــــــــاب

أنا فوق أجفان النساء مكســــــــر…………… قطعاً فعمري الموج والأخشـاب

لم أنس أسماء النساء وأنمـــــــا …………. للحسن أسباب ولي أسبــــــــــــاب

يا ساكنات البحر في قرطاجــة ……………جف الشذى وتفرق الأصحـــــاب

أين اللواتي حبهن عبــــــــــــــادة ………. وغيابهن وقربهن عــــــــــــــــذاب

اللابسات قصائدي ومدامعـــــي ………….عاتبتهن وما أفاد عتــــــــــــــــــاب

أحببتهن وهن ما أحببننـــــــــــــي ……… وصدقتهن ووعدهن كــــــــــــــذاب

إني لأشعر بالدوار فناهــــــــــــد……….. لي يطمئن وناهد يرتــــــــــــــــاب

هل دولة العشق التي أسستهــــا ……….. سقطت علي وسدت الأبــــــــــواب

تبكي الكؤوس فبعد ثغـر حبيبتي ………… حلفت بأن لا تسكر الأعنــــــــاب

أيصدني نهد تعبت برسمــــــــه …………وتخونني الأقراط والأثـــــــــــواب

ماذا جرى لممالكي وبيارقـــــــي ………. أدعو رباب فلا تجيب ربـــــــــاب

أأحاسب امرأة على نسيانهــــــا ………… ومتى أستقام مع النساء حســـــاب

ما تبت عن عشقي ولا أستغفرته ………….ما أسخف العشاق لو هم تابـــــوا

*********************************

قمر دمشقي يسافر في دمـــــي …………. وبلابل وسنابل وقبــــــــــــــــــاب

الفل يبدأ من دمشق بياضــــــه ……………. وبعطرها تتطيب الأطيــــــــاب

والماء يبدأ من دمشق ..فحيثمـا………….. أسندت رأسك جدول ينســــــــاب

والشعر عصفور يمد جناحــــه …………فوق الشآم وشاعر جــــــــــــــــواب

والحب يبدأ من دمشق فأهلنـــــا………… عبدوا الجمال وذوبوه وذابــــــــــوا

والخيل تبدأ من دمشق مسارهـا……….. وتشد للفتح الكبير ركـــــــــــــــــاب

والدهر يبدأ من دمشق وعندهــا……….. تبقى اللغات وتحفظ الأنســـــــــــاب

ودمشق تعطي للعروبة شكلهـا …………..وبأرضها تتشكل الأحقـــــــــــــاب

In Such Times

In such times when my fellow citizens are fighting for freedom, dying for freedom, my last thoughts should be of my own personal troubles. But I miss you. You, too, are experiencing what I experience every day: the worries, the anger, the sadness, and the hope. Why couldn’t we be together? Holding each other in such times? But some will never be able to hold their loved one who was killed in the last few months. And I still have hope that one day I will hold you again. So, I tell myself, at least I have you to miss.

The air is strange here. Maybe it is there for you too. It smells the same but the feeling is different. I’m almost afraid to breathe it because I’m not sure how my body will react to it. And yet, I breathe because I have to and my body adjusts somehow. I watch the blossoms blowing in the dry, hot wind – the wind that echoes the people’s cries. They seem to wither the moment they leave the tree but then cover the ground in a blanket of beautiful white, until they are tinged with blood. Then more fall, and the blanket regains its pristine colour.

People go to work, go out for dinner, walk hand in hand. Oh how I wish I could hold your hand. People pray and I know they ask for peace and strength. I pray too, in my own way. Then they walk, shout, call for justice. I am at home and wonder if it’s right that they should fight and I don’t. That they should die and I live. My niece looks at me with wide eyes as tears fall from my own. I hold her tight and tell her that I’m crying because I’m happy. Happy that she may have a chance at freedom. And then I miss you all over again.

In such times, the crowded streets resound with a strange emptiness but the birds sing as they always have. The colours of the souk are still bright, the muezzin’s voice rises and falls melodically, the children shout and play, car horns honk, and the sun rises and sets in exactly the same way. Everything is the same but different. Our world is like a broken mirror with shards of shadow and light. And yet, in our dreams we see the smoothest glass and a beautiful reflection. So we keep going. I see us, you and me, and I keep going.

In such times we are all alone and yet all together. In such times grief and triumph thunder simultaneously in a single breath. In such times I am amazed at the strength of our people and at the same time am fully aware of our mortality. In such times I long for a walk along a mountain road simply to pick wildflowers and to eat lunch beneath a canopy of leaves. In such times I long for the sound of a stream, the wind in the grasses, and the buzz of the cicada. In such times, I simply miss you.