Archive for the month “January, 2013”

Dictator (to those still standing)

DSC_1863Tomorrow, 25 January, will be the second anniversary since the start of the Egyptian revolution, the ongoing popular project that changed the region, and the world. Even with the beheading of the Pharaoh, the foundations of the regime linger, while dictators elsewhere stick to their palaces at all costs. Change is inevitable, one just needs to choose the right side of history.

The bells are already
announcing your funeral
we know that you're ready
you know it's your time
your arsenals running out
unlike our rage
and yet we'll allow you
to die like a man.
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The locked chamber

She stared at the door, terrified of opening it. She had the key he had given to her, which included no warnings and no instructions, contrary to all of the fairy tales she had read and conventional wisdom. He just asked her to take her time to get to know his house, at her own pace, so that she could enjoy herself and be ready to open the last chamber, the only one that’s locked.

Her heart, her little fickle heart, what was it telling her? She raised the key to eye level till it blocked sight of the door.
.
Open the door.
You are the one who holds the key.
 
In her mind, all the tales of gory massacres, dark chambers of torture and death, were racing like a film reel with the bloodiest images.
.
This is not a fairy tale, nor a dream. Can’t you feel the door breathing?
 
She waited by the door, holding the key, unable to bring herself to unlock it. She forgot the rest of the house – the places where they had played and laughed and made love – torn as she was with her doubts and fears. Until one day she crawled her way out of the house, tired, her clothes in tatters after an eternity waiting in front of the locked door. The sun blinded her, she started to see the state she was in. She loathed him and the key, threw it away and walked as quickly as she could from the house, and she felt breathing life again. She’d start afresh, new beginnings.
.
Can fear lead to freedom?
 
She’d deny she was afraid. It was just a dream. No need to behead him.
.
He was behind the locked door, waiting, alive with the hope that she would open it, dying further with every step she took away from him.

Tahrir

DSC_1786This is where liberation starts
when our guts roar hungrily
our stomachs unable to digest anymore
the cheapness of your greed
your blatant necrophilia
lusting at our demise
feeding yourself on engineered failures
sucking the sweat
of the masses
uprooting our family trees
from your own plastic garden
fountains of dollar ink
arousing your corpse
already buried alive
in your Pharaonic palace.
Do not fear us
we won't even touch you
we're just gathered outside
to seal your grave.

My little accomplice

ImageLast time I saw him, I was just about to tell him that I was going away, when he finally just flew off to the roof of the abandoned house next to the office, picked up a twig he had left there earlier, and disappeared into thin air. Which is just as well; I hate goodbyes and I’m crap at them.
.
Our affair started on a long dreary day at work in which we were forced to attend this full-day meeting on some HR bullshit. Incredible how employers manage to make an otherwise decent job dreadful, and so uselessly. The sheer amount of platitudes coming out of these meetings is enough to write a legion of bibles; which, come to think of it, is also part of the industry.
.
I was sitting next to an open window – it was a warm sunny April day and the others’ words seemed to just float around me and fly outside, becoming things, animals and people. Trees, flies, spiders, cars, donkeys, cats and children, mostly.
.
Without thinking, I was crumpling little pieces of bread from my sandwich into tiny cannon balls to be shot by my finger. At one point, he came into my frame, so calm and peaceful until his unannounced intrusion from nowhere. He started approaching the tiny pieces of bread that had landed on the window sill, picking them and pecking at the larger ones, hopping, staring at me for a second, and picking more. It went on and on, and he also started picking the larger pieces and flying with them to his little secret place in the abandoned house and come back until the day was thankfully over and we were liberated from the tyranny of management.
.
From that day onwards, he kept visiting me by the window, hopping along the ledge where I left him breadcrumbs and an ashtray with fresh water, which he would drink from and bathe in under the sun. Whenever I was away from the office, I would leave him extra supplies of bread, but my colleagues told me he would peck all day at the window, driving them crazy. My manager once even threw a cup of coffee at him, but he obviously outsmarted her and she ended up hitting a wheelchair-bound child in his face while he was passing by. So for most of the time, especially when I was away, people avoided my office, which is great.
.
I wanted to have a quick word with him before I left on a new assignment a year ago, tell him to behave, reassure him that my colleagues had clear instructions to feed him everyday, down to the type of bread he loved most (crunchy dry pitta). But he had none of that as he flew before I opened my mouth.
.
Yesterday my manager sent me this desperate email.
.
Your fucking sparrow is back with an entire family all knocking on our windows. COME BACK NOW!
.
I think it’s hilarious. She also called to make sure I got the message. She was hysterical, accusing me of sabotaging the office. I still can’t believe I’m going back, because of my little sparrow.
.
I’m coming, I told her at last. But calm down, I can’t fly.

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