Thursday, April 28, 2011

Un Amor

Un amor
Un amor vivi
Y mi decía
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor

A card of identity is produced as fast as possible to the newborn. In Iraq, they used to write our beliefs in our cards too. Some, got their real identity stable as the stability of the card information. Some, wanders around.
Esmeralda had no card of identity. Her identity is her multicolored skirt, which waves to the wind. And every time I reach in my wandering in front of her, next to Notre Dame de Paris, she repeats her question to me: who are really you?
Puzzled and enchanted I usually don't find an answer. All I can read in my identity is one love. Un amor.

Un amor vivi
Llorando ya tormentado
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor

Dehbia is her name, and she is Christian. And a Berber. Orphan. Very poor. Spending her life between two small villages, with Amazigh names that are difficult to remember. Difficult to remember, difficult to reach, but cannot be imagined but to be between mountains, and having no road paved to. Dehbia, is so white, pale white. And she wears the same dark colored clothes. And is serious. So, is there anyone but Amer, the atheist, the communist, who has just come from France, to fall in love with?
And to add the last flavor, Amer is like the majority, muslim, a religion that was not chosen, but inherited.

Yo quisiera
Para entenderlo, un amor y saber
Que me quería ya tormentado
Las palabras de Dios
Llorando por ti
Es con amor

It is the 68th page, from this 204 pages novel and still, we are no more advanced in information from the first page, the day Amer was killed. The 68 pages, so far, is a retrograde remembering. It is Dehbia's flow of thoughts while she is lying silently in the darkness alone. Her mother, Nana Malha, is frightened from what may happen next. Yes, her mother, Nana Malha. There is only her mother Nana Malha, from whom Dehbia, must have, taken her sense of pride. A pride, of the poor, and of the minority.

Hay para ya vivir acunto a ti

Me enamoré allá de ti

Ya sin tus besos yo no puedo

Vivir y recordar

Mouloud Feraoun's novel, "Les chemins qui montent" is a novel about love, and identity. Not only the identity of individuals, but also, of mountains.
Like Amer, Mouloud Feraoun, the novelist, was killed. Yet, the novel is still unfinished.
My Esmeralda, would you accept me as a Quasimodo? As the one who saves you from the priest?

Waiting for my Esmeralda to reply, many crossroads has been crossed and still, the love, is Un Amor.



tracy said...

i am in Salt Lake City, taking care of my Father, who is dying and helping my Mom. i miss you so much!
Many Respects,
Your sad friend,
Much Love to you!

saminkie said...

Oh dear Tracy. I can not say that I know what you feel know, it is a difficult moment that we must face such a thing in our life. It is sad my friend. I miss you too me dear. Sending to you from here my love and respect to you and to your parents. Love and Respect to my friend Tracy.

tracy said...

My Dear Sadeek,
Thank you for your lovely thoughts and words and the kind comment on my blog.

i am sorry for being so personal on your blog site.

Much love and respect to you and your parents,