Art of Revolution, Part 1

Not even the barbaric regime of Assad can kill the spirit of beautiful revolutionary Syrian art. Here I share with the world some images inspired by the reality which the people of Syria call life...

حتى نظام الأسد الهمجي غير قادر على قتل روح الفن الثوري السوري. هنا أشارك العالم ببعض اللوحات المستوحاة من الواقع  اليومي الذي يحياه الشعب السوري

In Support of Ali Ferzat

Ali Ferzat, one of the most famous cartoonists in Syria and the Arab world who has been a critic of the Syrian government, was severly beaten on 25 August by pro-government thugs in order to intimidate him and the Syrian opposition. In support of the talented and courageous Mr. Ferzat, here are some of his poignant cartoons.
Freedom to information in Syria:

Freedom of expression in Syria:

 Media coverage:

 Dr. Bashar's reform

 Bashar flipping through calendar, scared of Friday

 Super Glue!

 And finally, a defiant Ali Ferzat in his hospital bed

For more cartoons visit http://www.ali-ferzat.com/ar/home.html

On Opposition...

Since my previous post was about a much-anticipated but lagging Syrian revolution, I thought it was only fair to share some updates from the Syrian opposition. The following link shows footages of protestors from various parts of the country, collected in association with the UK-based Strategic Research and Communication Centre: http://www.icontact-archive.com/Bm8lHV2mhxCcOgrfaR4ODDF-0-Edh3VG?w=3

In spite of the sporadic protests, I still think that a major unified revolution has not yet taken place and is unlikely to happen in the near future, unless radical internal structural shifts or external interference take place.

As a matter of fact, the majority of Damascenes I have talked to report the continuation of normal daily activities, dismissing the news about the protests as "conspiracy theories aimed at national solidarity".

Here, I would really like to say a few things about opposition gorups. Regardless of the end results it achieves, the existence of opposition in any self-respecting constitutional regime is as vital as the presnce of the government in power itself. Call it the Yin and Yang of politics, if you will. Opposition ensures that powers are kept in check and that a healthy civil discussion is maintained. Most important, "opposition" is neither synonymous with "unpatriotism" nor "sectarianism". And while I do not generally support a power vacuum, I certainly can not give my voice to any institution that readily labels anyone seeking imporovement as an unpatriotic agent.

Why Al Tahrir Square in Damascus Remains Empty?

Democracy is like a dish of Spaghetti Napolitana: it’s messy and goes in unpredictable directions. This is especially true about the Middle East region. The difficulty of reaching a consensus government after a number of autocratic regimes have been recently toppled illustrate that democracy is by no means a natural smooth process. A long history of colonialism followed by despotic regimes, in addition to sectarian divisions and high levels of unemployment, to name but a few factors, are among the challenges facing democracy in this region.

Syrians are intuitively aware of this. Add the fact that the country still lives a recent memory of a severely-crashed attempted coup in the city of Hama in 1982 resulting in the death of thousands, then it comes as no surprise that many are reluctant to follow the lead of their Arab brethren. In spite of a small demonstration that sprouted in front of the Ministry of Interior in Damascus a couple of days ago, it is unlikely that the majority of the people will support an upheaval against the current government. An English proverb says it best: better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

(Picture: Al Tahrir Square, Damascus)

Biography of an Arab Swordsman -part 3-

O people:
I own you
Like I own my horse.. and my slaves
I walk on you like I walk on carpets in my palace
So bow to me when I stand
And bow to me when I sit
Did I not find you, on one of those days,
Between the papers of my ancestors??
Beware not to read any books
I read for you..
Beware not to write any letters
I write for you
Beware not to secretly listen to Feirouz
I know of your intentions
Beware not to enter graves without my consent
We deem that a cardinal sin
Remain quiet when I speak to you
My words are a holy Quran..

(Painting by Ludwig Deutsche)

Biography of an Arab Swordsman -part 2-

O people:
I am the foremost and the fairest
The prettiest among all other rulers
I am a full moon in a dark night, I am the whiteness of jasmines
I invented the first gallows, and I am the best of prophets..
Every time I consider resigning power, my conscience opposes me
Who, after me, would govern these poor fellows?
Who, after me, would heal the lame, and the albino, and the blind..
Who would resurrect bones?
Who, I wonder, would take moonlight out of his coat?
Who, I wonder, would send rain to people?
Who, I wonder, would lash them ninety lashes?
Who, I wonder, would crucify them on trees?
Who, I wonder, would force them to live like cows?
And die like cows?
Every time I think of leaving them
My eyes flow like a cloud...
And I surrender to God’s will…
And decide to ride on the back of the people..
From this day..till doomsday..

(Painting by Ludwig Deutsch depicting a palace guard)

Biography of an Arab Swordsman..!

I'm particularly fond of translating poems written by the brilliant Syrian author Nizar Qabani, who manages to depict a gloomy reality and turn it into an artful, yet straightforward, piece of literature. This one speaks for itself.

The original Arabic version can be found here

-Part 1-

O people:
I have become your Sultan
Break your delusory idols and worship me…
I rarely come into sight…
So sit by the pavement of patience till you witness me
Leave your children without bread
Leave your women without husband.. and follow me
Thank God for his blessing
For he has sent me to write history
And history shall not be written without me
I am Joseph in my splendor
The Creator has not created golden hair like mine
Nor a prophetic forehead like mine
My eyes are forests of olives and almonds
So pray for God to protect my eyes
O people:
I am “Leila’s Mad Lover”
So send your wives to be conceived by me
Send your husbands to thank me
You are honored to eat the wheat of my body
You are honored to harvest my almond and my fig
You are honored to resemble me..
For there has been none like me
Over thousands of centuries..

(Painting by Ludwig Deutsch)



I Ask you to Leave

While this beautiful poem by Nizar Qabbani is specifically addressed to his lover, I think that the theme can also be applied to any perfect and delicate memory we shield away from reality for fear of ruining it...


Let us part a little..
For the sake of what's best for this love, my love
And what's best for us..
Let us part a little
Because I want you to love me more
I want you to hate me a little
For the sake of what we have..
What used to be precious memories..
For the sake of a wonderful love..
That is still carved on our lips
That is still engraved on our hands
For the sake of the letters you wrote me
And your face like a flower implanted within me
And your lingering love on my hair, on my fingers
For the sake of our memories
And our beautiful sorrow and smile
And our love which grew bigger than our words
Bigger than our lips..
For the sake of the most beautiful love story of our lives
I ask you to leave
Let us part as lovers..
Birds in every season..
Part with hills..
And the sun my love..
Is prettiest when it tries to set
Be the doubt and torment of my life
Be a legend for once..
Be a mirage for once..
Be the question on my mouth
That does not know the answer
For the sake of a wonderful love
That resides in our hearts and lashes
And for me to be prettier
And for you to be closer
I ask you to leave
Let us part…as lovers..
Let us part in spite of all the love and tenderness
Through tears my love
I want you to see me
Through fire and smoke
I want you to see me
Let us burn.. let us cry my love
For we have forgotten
Long time ago what a blessing it is to cry
Let us part..
So our love is not reduced to habit
And our longing to ashes
So that flowers in vases do not wither
Do not worry my little one
Your love still fills my eyes and conscience
And I am still fascinated by your vast love
And I still dream of having you
My knight and my prince
But I.. but I..
Am afraid of my passion
Am afraid of my feelings
I am afraid of tiring of our longing
I am afraid of our closeness
I am afraid of our embrace
In the name of a great love
That blossomed like spring within us
Shone like sun in our eyes
In the name of the most beautiful love story of our ages
I ask you to leave..
For our love to remain beautiful..
For our love to live longer..
I ask you to leave..

(Painting by Salvador Dali)

Drunken Memory

By Ghada Al Samman

Why
Is it that when I am drunk on an airplane
The clouds form a map of Syria
One cloud after the other?
***
During Parisian exile events, I cut the ceremonial ribbons of rain
At Maxime Restaurant with a scythe from our old Shami village.
If I were a woman of chocolate,
I would’ve melted under the suns of Singapore and Manila.
If I were a woman of salt,
I would’ve dissolved in the sea waters between Lisbon and Barcelona.
But I am a Sinbad who circled the earth in search of her lover,
While he had been lying deep inside her all along , and his name is her Country
***
He was cruel and violent.
I felt his palm like an ice block when he took my hand
But I have loved him and followed him to the end of the world
While snow fell off his eyes over me…
And his lips blew winds of the Alps when he whispered my name,
His name was: Exile
I do not regret that wretched love,
For the so-called “exile” taught me better than any other teacher how

To write the name of my country with stars on a board made of night.

---------------------------------

(My translation from Arabic version)

Painting by Lord Frederick Leighton

Foolish Woman

By Nizar Qabani

My dear lord
This is a letter
From a foolish woman
Has a foolish woman ever written to you before?
My name?
Let’s leave names aside
Rania or Zainab
Hind or Haifa
The silliest things we bear, my lord, are names
My lord
I fear of voicing my concern
I fear, if I did, the skies will burn
For your orient, my dear lord,
Confiscates blue letters
Seizes dreams from women’s dressers
Uses knives
And blades
To talk to women
Slaughters springs and yearnings
And black braids
Your orient, my dear lord,
Crafts sublime crowns of honor
Out of women’s skulls
Do not criticize me my lord
If my handwriting is poor
As I write with a swordsman behind my door
And outside my room winds howl and dogs growl
My lord
Antara the Brave is behind my door
He would slaughter me
Should he see my letter
He would behead me
Should I defy my fetter
He would behead me
Should my dress be unproper
For your honor, my dear lord,
Sieges women with spears
Appoints men as seers
And buries women
Do not be upset!
My dear lord…from my lines
Do not be upset
If I smash the bottle sealed for ages
If I break the iron stamp on my pages
If I run away
From the castles and the harem cages
If I revolt against my death
My grave
My roots
And the great slaughterhouse
Do not be upset my lord!
If I unveil my passions
For an oriental man
Does not care for poetry nor passion
An oriental man
Does not understand a woman except in bed
Pardon me…pardon me my lord
If I offend men’s kingdom
Great literature – surely men’s literature – and love
Have always been men’s share
And sex has always been
A drug sold to men
Women’s freedom in our country is a myth
For there is no freedom
Other than men’s freedom
My lord
Say what you please of me, I won’t mind – superficial, foolish, crazy, stupid - I no longer mind
Because she who writes about her woes
Is a foolish woman according to men’s logic
Didn’t I say earlier that I am
A foolish woman?

(My translation from the Arabic version)

Illustration by Virginia Frances Sterrett

Open Doors

Panting heavily and almost choking on his suppressed tears, Safi repeatedly banged on the recently-painted wooden door with convulsive angry fists. BANG! BANG! BANG...Pause for a breath…Banging resumes. It wasn’t until the woman in the neighboring apartment opened her door that Safi realized he had been knocking too loud for too long. Through the cracked door, a sweet aroma of freshly baked bread escaped and filled the air. She looked at the shaken boy with a sweet inquisitive smile.
“Hey you’re the son of Abu Safi, right? I saw your dad and his wife leave earlier this morning and I don’t think they’re back yet.”
“I’m…I’m sorry to bother you…I…Do you know when they’ll be back?…I really need to talk to him”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, dear.”
Hala saw that the boy was clearly troubled. Her maternal instinct simply could not shut him down, not another one.
“You can wait for them inside if you want. I was just about to boil some cinnamon tea. C’mon in”
“Really?…I mean are you sure you don’t mind?”
One smile was all the assurance he needed.

The furniture in the living room was simple, yet comfortable. An over-sized portrait of a young man hung on the central wall immediately stood out.
“That is my darling son, Fouad. He works in Kuwait.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t recall seeing him around before.”
Hala sensed that a light conversation could help ease down the boy’s nerves, so she continued.
“He has been working there since he was eighteen…I haven’t seen him since then, either.”
“How old is he now?”
“Next month he will turn 24. I was only 16 when I had him, but even at that age I knew he would be all the pride in my life. I still remember how I did everything I could so that he would become a great doctor, just like I and his late father always wanted him to be”. She added with a nostalgic guilty smile “I even threatened him if he doesn‘t go to medicine school I would deprive him of my blessings forever. See, I just wanted the best for him.”
After a sorrowful pause, she added “but he left at eighteen...just before he could go to university”
“I’m sorry to hear that Um Fouad…”
“Oh just call me Hala. So how‘s your mom doing? I only met her a couple of times before it happened… I mean the divorce. She always seemed very sweet.”
“Yeah…I really need to talk to dad about her before it’s too late…can you believe her? she’s completely gone out of her mind.”
“Kher, what is it?”
“Somebody must stop her. She wants to get remarried! At her age! Am I not enough for her? He must stop her!”
“But you‘re parents are divorced, so really…”
“She cannot do this. She cannot just abandon me…Next year I will turn eighteen so maybe I should also…”
Safi could feel the tears growing in his throat and threatening to drown his whole entity.
“Oh dear, my dear, come here. Don’t be cruel like that…Don‘t leave your mama.”
Hala impulsively engulfed him with her arms. Even as alien as Safi was to the concept of hugging, he felt found by her warmth.
“Stay…Just stay a while.”
Safi held her back as tight as he could.

Painting by Mario Mously

Blind Walls

“Voting is for fags
For us, we believe in our leaders
What is a commoner like me compared to the experienced and wise leaders we have?
Bread, bills, rent, that’s what I worry about
A people like ours doesn’t even deserve to have its own say
Why, we would be at each others’ throats until we wipe each other out
We have agreed to disagree
Democracy shmocracy who has time for that nonsense?
It’s all part of a western plot to brainwash us and occupy our lands
All those satellite news channels are part of the plot too, you know
But I mock them by watching soccer instead
Thank God for the West
They were created to serve us
They work hard all day long to invent technology
When they’re done we put it right in our living rooms
All this, because of the wisdom of our leaders
For us we don’t need too much outside learning
All the knowledge is in the holy texts
You just read and you know
Even if you don’t know that you know, but you know
That’s why we believe in our leaders
They, better than anyone, know”

(Painting by Thomas Clyde)

The Transaction

Rima stretched her fragile body closer to the mirror as she applied a thick line of black eyeliner around her eyes with the new pencil her mother bought her for special occasions. After she was done, Rima took a final content look, and then ran to her mother in the kitchen who was preparing the traditional Turkish coffee. It was dark, bitter and boiled to perfection. Just the way it has been brewed for generations.
“What do you think mom?”
“Oh honey, you are gorgeous! You are gonna knock them dead”.
Rima giggled happily.
“But don’t forget to play a little hard-to-get. We want to give the impression that we are still reluctant.” Her mom said with a wink.

This was a big day for Rima as well as for her mother, Um Karim. As a mother it was her job to secure her daughter’s future by marrying her off to a member of a rich influential family in Damascus. She was dealt a fair share of cards and instinctively knew how to play them. To speed up the transaction, Um Karim decided that Rima will not have to wear her hijab in front of the suitor and his family tonight. Showing off those luxurious curls are a sure bet. “After all, she is only fifteen. She’s too young to cover up” Um Karim would rationalize.

Right after Al Mughrib prayer, a door bell was heard ringing. Um Karim frantically rushed her daughter to hide in her room, and then ran to get the door herself. As the custom was, the groom-to-be arrived accompanied by his father, mother, and eldest sister. Um Karim, fulfilling her role, had entirely redecorated the guest room the day before, and took care of all the necessary arrangements. The evening had to go just as it was planned. The old curtains were replaced with the fancy ones, reserved for guests. The sofas and cushions were scrubbed and rescrubbed. The silver cutlery borrowed from the neighbors was polished. New rugs were spread. Home-made delicacies were prepared. And of course, coffee was slowly brewing on the stove.

Later that night, there were hand shakes and plastic smiles. Fat bellies roared from underneath neatly-tailored suits. Numerical figures were discussed. Rima appeared and disappeared after serving the coffee. The evening ended professionally and, to everybody’s content, that night a deal was closed.

(Painting by Sapna Sarkar)