13 July, 2006

She Loved Naji Al-Ali

She was simple, but she knew what love means, that love is sacrifice, she never liked philosophy, but she believed that love is not just a word; it is to give more than to take.

Before dawn, she wakes up to check on him, he was sleeping like an angel, he gets in deep sleep the moment he puts his head on the pillow, she loves to see him sleeping beside her, with that angelic look on his face, he smiles even in his sleep, she looked out of the window, to see if there was someone outside their house, it was war time, when she hears something she holds his hand, she wants him always to be with her, she puts her ear near his heart, as if she wants to make sure he is still alive.

She lived in the camps somewhere, he lived there too, and she was as poor as he was, when he saw her the first time, they fell in love, they blamed him, she is not beautiful, he never listened to them, he was like all boys in the camp, playing war games, no hide and seek any more, when the day came, they got married, as thousands of people in the camps, one room house, and big hope, in a better future.

He went to the gulf, he took her and the children, to make some money, but he returned back to Lebanon, he preferred the poverty of the camps than living in that consumerism way of living, Palestinians forgot their dreams of coming back, he thought it was better to live in the camps where one cannot forget his roots, and his people misery, he wanted to live his dream.

They lived in a time where assassinations killed innocent, and patriots, he was no exception, many times he received a warning, stop what you do, or we will kill you, he ignored them. Every morning she would wake up early, get in the car, and start the engine, to check if they booby trapped his car, she did that every morning, she wanted him to live, she wanted him to draw, as she loved him more than herself.

She didn’t know that they would kill him, because she thought that she could protect him, she forgot that there is no mercy in this world, but when they told her that he was killed, she cried, but then she smiled and remembered that he would never die, his drawings will make him immortal, Handala will never die.

5 comments:

hamede said...

Ya handala will never die.

eyad said...

Hamede: lets hope that :)

the caller said...

asalam 3alaykom,
That just broke my heart..a ana mesh na2sa!!
great writing ya eyad..
thank you for sharing it.

eyad said...

The caller: oh, you are here again, thanks , i feel flattered,its my pleasure.

whoami123 said...

.

We work like a horse.
We eat like a pig.
We like to play chicken.
You can get someone's goat.
We can be as slippery as a snake.
We get dog tired.
We can be as quiet as a mouse.
We can be as quick as a cat.
Some of us are as strong as an ox.
People try to buffalo others.
Some are as ugly as a toad.
We can be as gentle as a lamb.
Sometimes we are as happy as a lark.
Some of us drink like a fish.
We can be as proud as a peacock.
A few of us are as hairy as a gorilla.
You can get a frog in your throat.
We can be a lone wolf.
But I'm having a whale of a time!

You have a riveting web log
and undoubtedly must have
atypical & quiescent potential
for your intended readership.
May I suggest that you do
everything in your power to
honor your encyclopedic/omniscient
Designer/Architect as well
as your revering audience.
As soon as we acknowledge
this Supreme Designer/Architect,
Who has erected the beauteous
fabric of the universe, our minds
must necessarily be ravished with
wonder at this infinate goodness,
wisdom and power.

Please remember to never
restrict anyone's opportunities
for ascertaining uninterrupted
existence for their quintessence.

There is a time for everything,
a season for every activity
under heaven. A time to be
born and a time to die. A
time to plant and a time to
harvest. A time to kill and
a time to heal. A time to
tear down and a time to
rebuild. A time to cry and
a time to laugh. A time to
grieve and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones
and a time to gather stones.
A time to embrace and a
time to turn away. A time to
search and a time to lose.
A time to keep and a time to
throw away. A time to tear
and a time to mend. A time
to be quiet and a time to
speak up. A time to love
and a time to hate. A time
for war and a time for peace.

Best wishes for continued ascendancy,
Dr. Whoami

P.S. One thing of which I am sure is
that the common culture of my youth
is gone for good. It was hollowed out
by the rise of ethnic "identity politics,"
then splintered beyond hope of repair
by the emergence of the web-based
technologies that so maximized and
facilitated cultural choice as to make
the broad-based offerings of the old
mass media look bland and unchallenging
by comparison."