Ma Jen

One night I went to a mad inn
I saw a huge tit old maiden
She was like wine 1944 made in
She took my mind and dissolved it in her glass


Al Abouthi'ya is a type of Iraqi poetry written in our slang language which is a mixture of Arabic, ruminants of old languages, and words from different civilizations that lived once, or invaded once, in Iraq like Persian, Turkish, and England. Some few other origins of words also exist like the word "Timman" which we use in Iraq to describe rice and it is of Chinese origin.
Al Abouthi'ya may have its origins from the Sumerian poetry which sometimes use a similar technique. The technique is to use four lines, the first three end in the same word sound which would have a different meaning each time. The last line usually ends more freely and uniting the above three lines in a meaning.

Al Maw'wal, is a way of singing. It is a slow recitation of an Abouthi'ya with the aid of usually only one instrument.
Ya beh…..
Aakh ya ya beh….
Yuba ma jen…..
Ya heefi i3la lyali ib3idan ma jen,
El hamid lallah bjifak el 3akil ma jen
Ana bicheet u min dumo3i jbal ma jen
3ala wlifi il misha w ib3ad 3alaya
Shoon bi'ya…

Oh father,
Oh brother,
Father MA JEN (a word that was used in the poem to denote three different meanings: didn't come, didn't become crazy, and surged)
What a lost the nights went away and didn't return
Thanks God the mind didn't go away with you
Because of my tears, mountains started surging
Crying on my love who went and left me alone
What to do with myself?

Worth to be Read by All

Novels that teach a lesson of life

One poet said once that he would not write a poem that he will feel he doesn't want his mother, daughter, sister or wife to read.
What is the value of what you write if you will be shy if your mother know about it?
That poet was from Russia and I am not sure that he is "Rassol Hamzatov".

Look at the cover of this book



it seems that the Arabic publication companies are knowing finally how to make a cover. It is so nice. It is the cover of 3 short stories of the Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov. The second story in entitled "The First Teacher" which is about a teacher called Diochene, who came to his village of origin early in the 20th century to open a school. The villagers didn't understand why that should happen and they did not help. Actually they fought him. He built the school from his salary and convinced the children, sometimes against their parents' will, to come to school. He was walking every morning around the village to collect the children.

Altinai was a girl. She was an orphan raised by her aunt who was abusing her. Altinai loved the school which her aunt was very against. Her aunt, one day, brought a man living in the mountain and promised him that Altinai would be his wife. The next day Altinai was at school when the mountain man came to school and took her. Diochene tried to prevent him but he failed. The mountain man broke the teachers arm. The next day Diochene visited the mountain with two army men for Altinai, the mountain man was imprisoned, Altinai was sent to Moscow to complete her studies.

Altinai became a professor that her village, Korkoryo, became pride of and named a newly opened secondary school after her name. She wanted the name of the school to be Diochene.

This is worth to be read by all.

Novels that make you frown

He took me to 1949 with a novel named "a spit in the face of life" and it was about incest. A father whose desire for his daughter is confusing, while the daughter is not innocent. A mixture that was not easy to read. The deep psychological insight is annoying. Fwad Al Tikarli had made me feel surprised for the existence of such a frankness in Iraqi literature. A thing that I didn't know is existing. "a spit in the face of life" is a short novel with easy language.


"the sand ring" was written in 1990s talking about a young man who decided to make his choice in spite of the traditions of the Iraqi society of marriage. He was threatened to be killed but he was stubborn. Actually he was stupid. Some say that Fwad Al Tikarli is among the first who were affected by the "existentialism" movement in Baghdad and that this novel talks about the choice of the protagonist to "exist". Anyway it left me with some anxiety.

"the no question and the no answer" is another novel written between 2005 and 2006 by Al Tikarli. It is about an Iraqi father living in the 1990s and suffering from poverty. He is a teacher but works in the evening as a taxi driver. He started to have sleepwalking at night with nightmares. He also got some sexual lust to one of his daughters. Actually she is the daughter of his wife from another wife. Another novel that made me anxious when I was reading it.

I cannot say that I don't like Al Tikarli, because it seems that I may read another novel for him to see to where he would take me, but his novels are not novels that made you smile, they are novels that made you frown.

Back to Life

Iraqi satellite channels are so numerous, more in number than any other Arabic country channels. Their quality at beginning was bad, but they did change quickly. Al Hurria (= the freedom) became one of my favorite when I once watched a document on "The Mendaee" religion in 2006. Baghdad was so violent and people were getting more closed to their religions and races and I was sitting in the restaurant of house of doctors watching that document that showed us how our country is antic and how beautiful is its old religions.



I turned the T.V. on last night and I saw Muthafar Al Nwuab chanting his poems. He is known for his frankness, and for saying some frank insults in his poems. His poems were not allowed to inter Iraq before 2003. I suspect that any Arabic channel can play some parts of his bold poems talking about religion, politics, and love.
I felt proud that I was able to see Muthafar Al Nwuab on an Iraqi T.V. channel.

Next day was Friday. I felt that I should go the next day to Al Mutanabbee street for a walk. To see my Baghdad hoping that I would enjoy my day.









Friday in old religions is linked to love. Its name came from the name of the Scandinavian goddess Freya, the goddess of love, beauty and fertility. Friday was a dangerous day in Baghdad during 2005 till the end of 2007. The government ordered a complete car ban, sometime even pedestrian ban, at Fridays. Al Mutannabee street Friday festivals stopped. An explosion in the same street tried to made it forgotten.
Today I went there just for a walk. I already have many books waiting to read.


I heard a song of a makam coming from Al Mada library. I went up stairs and I saw a crowd around a Chalghi musical group, two lectures talking one after the other about Al Qubanchie, and between their talks a Reader of a Makam would Read (=sing) a certain makam. The crowd was so happy. I felt so happy to a degree that I made some effort to prevent my tears from flowing.

The young girl standing in front of me was so happy and was the first to start the applauding after every piece of music ends. The lecturer ended his lecture saying: "you are the stars of this small lovely festival, thank you for coming"

Thank you for Al Mada library for making us proud of our Iraq.

the song you can hear in this post is sang by "Abbas Al Bayati" and it is a very famous Iraqi Makam song.

Lovely lies

I wanted you even if you were a liar
I wanted you to scatter a fist of reproach into my life
I wanted you even if you are a window
Filling my life with dust
I wanted you even if you were a liar

Poems of dementia
Episode one: "star war"

When the mind gets bored from too much reality testing, when the daily life is so regular like mathematics, when we spend our day sitting, when nobody shake us, when we are so alone, spending hours packed in a small minibus stuck in the crowded dangerous narrow ugly streets of
demented Baghdad, when we experience all that we will start to like poems like this one. Poems of dementia. A poem that I first heard in a song, in a strange Iraqi song, the words went like they want, fluent like water, like a lover's heartbeats race, like the long hair of a gypsy with a wide colored skirt waving to the wild wind. It reminds me of her saying stories to me. When she used to get angry at me she tells me about that "Star War" story that I most feared. "The stars would fight with each other and the world, the whole world would explode and we will all die" she would say that with an angry tone and I would fear and hold her and say "no this is not true". "it is true!" she would assure. "Stars are very far". "Well, will you do what I want from you?". I would go and do what she ordered me to do and then ask again after few minutes about the stars. She would say "let us assume that they are far, but not very far". I miss her, I don't know where she is now, I have no clue. Their quarter had been changed to an ugly commercial area since long time.

I wanted you even if you are red cactus
To shade my face
From those who speak behind my back
Liar
Liar
You fox of our luxurious grapes
We cherish you even if you are a liar

Poems of wars
Episode two "Malaga"

It was war and we moved to a new place to live for a while. I befriended him from the first day when I saw him playing chess alone. He was so sensitive and he never saw Baghdad. I missed my Baghdad so I started lying. I told him that every three or four of our neighbors run a musical rock band and that I have a band with 2 other boys and that I was the keyboard player and the singer. I even claimed to him that I am a professional guitar player. He was a boy from a village, and he was so polite. He took me once to his brother's house and he came with a guitar. He sat on the floor and played a sad
piece of Spanish music. Something like "Malaga". Then he taught me to play it. How wise he was. How polite. The next day I didn't stop telling my legendary tales. What a spoilt kid I was.
I wonder what he is doing now.

You knocked my door
My door grassed happiness
And the wood
Blazed and dissolved

Poems of giants
Episode three: bicycles and oleanders

He had a blue BMX bicycle. I had a red bicycle. We would go together like young tigers racing around and around our beautiful neighborhoods. Our quarter was filled with garden of different types. I liked especially the smell of the Difla (=oleander) tree. My friend origins were from Bartella, a village in the north of Mosul. In our childhood he was telling me about Giants that live in the mountains
in his village of origin. Giants as big as the mountains. he was trying to convince me with his believes back then while I was making fun of him. He called his sister and asked her to tell me about those Giants. She did. My sister jointed us and we laughed at them. These days I don't see my friend, his sister, nor my sister.

My cheek flamed
And the soul grew up
In flowers of pepper
And the earrings
Dissolved in acid

Poems of the biting bee
Episode four: "marriage & divorce and a single day"

When I first saw her a wise old female bee bit my heart a long bite and then started injecting hot honey in my little poor heart while every
movement she made was recorded by my non blinking glistening eyes. I was in love with her. She came to my classroom one day. I was in 6th primary school class Alif (=A), she was in Ba'a (=B). She asked me to chose a girl from our school and tell her her name. "Why?" I said, but she gave me no clue. Deep inside my tortured heart I wanted to whisper her name but instead I chose to be diplomatic. I chose my sister's name that was also in our school. My sister had a name very similar to another girl in our class and she thought I meant that girl in our class. She started writing something smiling while I was just asking "what???? Whaaaaat??". She finally laughed and said: "MARRIAGE!!!!! HA HA HAAAAAAAAA" and she went running. I chased her while my heart was melting in hot honey drops that flamed the image of that love red horse. I caught her behind the main building of our school and asked her: "what was that?". "Sami, uh, let me breath, oh God, we run too much, look, ihim ihim, it is a game that we write two names, (wicked smile) a male and a female, ihim ihim, by doing some calculations from the letters of their names mixed together, we can
know their fate, their fate together, I mean, you know what I mean, it may be: HATE, LOVE, FRIENDSHIP, NOTHING AT ALL, or (she widened her eyes, smiled, raised her eyebrows and said: OR MARRIAGE wow…. "
I smiled; I was trying to catch my breath. She was so beautiful and lively. It was not only me that loved her. I could not say anything to her standing face to face to me. I turned and started walking. She walked behind me and said: "ok Sami, seriously, tell me another name". "No thank you" I said bitterly. "Come on it is only a game" she said. I looked at her seriously lost. "It is fun come on let us laugh" she added. I was hurt by her insensitivity. Was she insensitive? She was more mature than me. Girls mature earlier. I said a fake name. I chose a name I can still remember. It just came to my mind and I said it. I female name that I thought is long and charming, and a small father name of three letters that seems tuff. She said annoyed: "Who is this?". "Somebody" I said playing a role of a tuff guy unconcerned by the suffering of the hundred girls that fall in love with him. She made the calculation with no smile.
"Divorce!" she said. "Your game is nonsense" I said to her while she was turning and went away.

I swung the braids
My love my love, my love
I died like a door

How many times we should pass throw this?
The heart had thwart
And repent from you
Liar
My heart you fox
A liar since long time

The words in deep orange color are the poem entitled "Liar" written by the well know Iraqi poet Muthaffar Al Nuwab and translated "badly" by me. its Arabic is so easy. Written in slang Iraqi language, Sang by the well known Iraqi singer Ilham Al Madfae'e, it is so lovely to my heart to a strange degree.

I believe

I believe in Hera, the queen of heavens. Her chariot was pulled by a peacock through the skies.
I believe that Aphrodite made a fault when she hided Adonis in a coffer. Another goddess took him out heralding the end of heaven and start of day and night, spring and autumn.

Don't imprison your beauty.

A la Recherche du Temps Baghdadi Perdu

Remebrance of Baghdadi Things Past



I took a day off from work to complete some papers regarding my father's retirement. I don't like the retirement crowded old building. as soon as I finished the papers I went out to the river and took a boat to Al Mustanseria school of Baghdad. Now I know I like old buildings of Baghdad.





Then I walked to al Mutanabbe street to find Al Mada library has just opened its new building which was very stylish to a degree that made me feel so happy.






Afifa Iskandar went with me upstairs talking about how much Abbas Jameel is talented while Jammouli went jealous.


Al Jawahiri greeted Afifa Iskandar with a poem.



On the music of Iraqi Makam I found my way to Abdul Khaliq Al Rukab Novel "the 7th day of creating".



While 2 US army helicopters were leaving a young man named Saif (= sword) asked me to take a picture for him with the Iraqi flag which was waving next to Al Kushla clock.

a letter of love to psychiatry

Students of medical college asked me early this morning about why "I" consider anxiety as a disease. It took me some time to talk about the concept of disease, disorder, illness, pathology, suffering, cost-benefit balance of treatment, and quality of life. I asked them if they consider a "fracture in the leg due to car accident" as a disease. I asked them whether they think "pregnancy" is a disease. Should we call a man with a fractured leg as "patient"? Should we call a pregnant lady a "patient"? And what is disease after all? Can you define it?

Anyway I am sensitive these days from those who are skeptical about psychiatry. I don't feel respected in my daily life. I saw a specialist in ENT (Ear, Nose and Throat) from Hilla today and I like him very much. He likes me very much too. We kissed each others like we usually do in Iraq and started talking about some shared memories. He asked me before we departed:

- Are you STILL with psychiatry?
- …..? with?
- Didn't change … I mean…. Still sure that you want to be a psychiatrist?
- Well, what to do else? I like it.
- God may help you my friend and make success in your way always.
- Thank you dear, same for you. Byebye.
- Byebye.

Soooo he is kind but, like them, what is wrong?

In that small room he said to his companion with a loud voice as if trying to see what would be my comment: "our thesis in psychiatry is just nonsense, do you believe that someone can really work and do a thesis? Just lies". They laughed anxiously while looking at me. I smiled to them and went out to the outpatient clinic.

A teenage with obsessive compulsive disorder was waiting me in the outpatient clinic. He astonished me by his knowledge of his disorder and he told me that he chat online with a psychiatrist from the USA. He told me that he reads websites talking about obsessive compulsive disorder. Dealing with him made me realize that I am not in a world of ignorant.

After him came three clients, one after the other, all having social phobia, all were university graduates and very clever.

Then a lady from a rural area, no schooling, with marked psychomotor retardation, anhedonia, insomnia, early morning awakening and history of resistant depression came alone. She was enough insightful to say: "I really don't want to come to you doctor, but I got to force myself, cause when the episode will go away I would think this is what I should have been done, coming to you". I asked her about whether she finds life worthy. She told me about her suicidal attempts and showed me her previous wrist and neck wounds. I told her she must be treated inside hospital for few days maybe. She asked me to consult her family and that she will come on the next days.

A lady with a card written on it: "paranoid schizophrenia on zyprexa 10mg/day" came to ask me about zyprexa. She said: "I don't want to go back thinking those strange ideas doctor, I have hurt my daughters enough on the last episode, I want to continue on zyprexa, is this dangerous? Is zyprexa addictive?"

The last client was a small family. Father, mother and her, the most beautiful princess with hearing difficulty and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. She turned the room upside down on our heads. She wrote me a letter and drew me a painting.

When they went I felt I am much better and that I like my profession no matter what. Those people I saw today in the outpatient clinic know about psychiatry more, and respect psychiatry more than medical students, ENT specialist, and some other doctors. It is for their sake, and for my sake, that I will continue enjoying studying and practicing psychiatry. Those ideas were coming in my head while I was preparing to go out of the outpatient clinic. The king, father of the princess came to me with the princess who was frowning at her father who said: "please doctor, can you write something for her, I mean anything in a white paper, I am sorry but she wants to take the prescription paper you already wrote and she might tear it, can you just give her a paper with anything written on so that she stop her temper?".
"sure" I said and took a white paper and wrote something like her lines on it and gave it to her. She smiled and hold it up in the sky and yelled at her father: "hay hay!!". Her father kept saying "sorry doctor" and I kept saying "it is ok" we smiled to each other and went out.

Ya Zina (=Hey Beauty)

يا زينة ديري لا تاي
ديري لا تاي ومنل قابسة للبراد
يا زينة ريبي للواد
ريبي للواد وجيبي نعناع جديد

Ya Zina make the tea
Make the tea, from the sauce pan to the tea pot
Ya zina go to the river
Go to the river, and bring fresh menthol






I have finished my thesis yesterday and spent the rest of the night watching a film of Maryl Streep and Clint Eastwood named "Bridges of Madison County". This evening I decided that I should take a rest. I opened the youtube and found myself typing "Raina Rai Ya Zina" and hearing that song from the 80s of Algeria.

يا زينة مانيش عليك
مانيش عليك لاخرودوني عينيك
يا زينة كولي واه
ولا لالا ولا تكطيني للياس

Ya zina am not speaking on you
Speaking 'bout you, your eyes have perturbed me
Ya zina tell me yes
Or no no, or cut my hope

Algerian coast in the 80s witnessed one of my earliest discoveries of my body. I saw my extended family for the first time in swimming dresses making some conversation with the sea. I preferred to run like a young wild horse till the sun said goodbye. "Bronzage", said in a French accent, made my old uncle saying: "your color now is so beautiful my boy". It was very rare that he talk to me. His compliment made me feel so happy. One month of happiness ended heralding the return to Baghdad while my mom's tears are in her cheeks while the taxi driver was driving fast next to the sea taking us to the airport. My eyes, not used to see my mother's tears, started pleasing them to stop that silent crying.


يا زينة عينيك كبار
عينيك كبار يدخلو المحنة للدار
يا زينة والزين الزين
والزين الزين وساكن سيدي ياسين

Ya zina your eyes are big
Your eyes are big bringing the ordeal to the home
Ya zina the beauty the beauty
And the beauty the beauty living in Sidi Yaseen

يا زينة والفن والراي
والفن والراي وخارج من بلعباس
يا زينة راني مهموم
راني مهموم منك ماجاني نوم

Ya zina & art & rai
And art and rai coming from Bil Abbas
Ya zina I am concerned
I am concerned, because of you no sleep came to me

Sahara treated my insomnia (March 2005)
Insomnia attacked me on Algeria in 2005 while I was searching for a job and not finding any. I thought I am a tuff guy till I chose one day to visit a psychiatrist. She was a lady psychiatrist. I cried a lot like I never did since long years. She was very helpful. After visiting her I took my Amytriptiline and went to Bou Sa'ada to start searching for a job there. Bou Sa'ada is also called the gate of Sahara because it lies at the start of Sahara. I started sleeping so well there but I found no job during a period of one month. On the night I chose to return to Iraq a Bou Sa'adian family invited me for dinner.
Before we started to eat an old lady entered the room where we were sitting. She stretched her hand to me. She seemed she wanted to shake hands. I put my hand in her hand. She started to take my hand toward her mouth…. And then… I wanted to take my hands back but I thought it would be in appropriate… she kissed my hand… !!! God what to do. I thought for a long second then decided that I should kiss her hand… I took her hand to my lips and kissed them. You know what she did? She took my hand again and kissed it!!!! I took again her hand and kissed it. I am not sure now that we did that a third time but I am sure that the people around us were surprised by this strange greeting of our invention, me and the old lady whom I didn't see before. We were smiling wide to each other when she went inside the house. People decided not to comment on this perplexing incident while I was really feeling more relaxed and more secure. We ate that Bou Sa'adian dish with resonant gusto.

يا زينة كولي لباك
كولي لباك راه القلب رضاك
يا زينة كولي ليماك
كولي ليماك وراه الحب براك

Ya zina tell your dad
Tell your dad that the heart is willing for you
Ya zina tell your mom
Tell your mom that love had healed you

يا زينة ما نيش عليك
ما نيش عليك وراني عل روميات
يا زينة كوليلي واه
ولة لالا ولة تكطعيني لليآس

Ya zina I am not speaking on you
'bout you, I am about the western women
Ya zina tell me yes
Or no no or put an end to my hope

To Baghdad with her tears on my cheeks (April 2005)
I reached Alger. I went to tell my mom that I will go back. I could not bear the weight of her tears. I went out to central Alger. I bought 2 books of Rachid Bou Jidra. I walked in Didoush Murad street. I walked in Bab El Wad. I bought a ticket to Amman/Jordan from the Algerian Airway. I took a taxi late in the evening back home. I took my Amitriptyline and Bromazepam prescribed by that Algerian female psychiatrist two months ago. I slept like statues do. I woke up. I went to kiss her goodbye. She was in her bed, under her blanket silently crying. While her tears were on my cheeks I went back to Iraq.


كي راني ولة مهموم
في هذي كحلة لعيون
نجمة النجوم
كي راني لة مغروم
يا زينة

I am concerned
In this black eyed woman
Star of the stars
I am in love
Ya zina

The Ruins

"My heart, don't ask where the love has gone
It was a citadel of my imagination that has collapsed
Water me and let me drink of its ruins
And tell the story on my behalf as long as the tears flow
Tell how that love became past news
And became a matter of the subject of pain"


Um Kalthum. You know her? You should my friend. Here she is.

"I haven't forgotten you And you seduced me
with a sweetly-calling and tender tongue
And a hand extending towards me
like a hand stretched out through the waves
to a drowning person
And a light searching for a wanderer

But where is that light in your eyes?"

She is Egyptian. She sings in an Egyptian Arabic accent. She refused to sing in any other accent when visiting Arab countries like other singers do. She only sang in Egyptian accent. She never sang a song of somebody else. She only sang her songs. She made an exception. Only one exception as far as I know, and that was in the 1930s when she visited Baghdad. She heard Salima Murad singing "your heart is a boulder rock" in Al Hilal (=crescent) cabaret. Um Kalthum sang Salima Murad's song on the next night in that same cabaret. Salima Basha went angry, while Ma'arouf Al Rusafi calmed down her saying: "you give us your song like serving a fatty ox meat meal, while Um Kalthoum presents it like a Gazelle meat dish, don't worry my dear". I don't know if Salima Basha liked what Al Rusafi said, but it seems it calmed her down a little.

"My darling, I visited your nest one day
bird of desire singing my pain
You've become self-important, spoiled and capricious
And you inflict harm like a powerful tyrant
And my longing for you cauterized my ribs (soul or insides)
And the moments were embers in my blood"

Salima Murad was born in Baghdad in 1905. She was a famous singer and she was the protagonist in the Iraqi film "Alia and Isam" in 1946. In spite of being a Jew, Salima Murad Basha stayed living in Baghdad till she died in the first of January 1974. She was very respectful. She brought respect to female singers. Females singers were seen, and still seen, in Arabic countries as prostitutes in disguise. Salima Murad, Um Kalthoum, Fairouz, and few others brought respect to Arabic female singers and stood tall in theatres all over the Arabic countries.

"Give me my freedom, release my hands
I've given you and did not try to retain anything
Ah, your chains have bloodied my wrists
Why are they still there when I no longer affect you
Why do I keep promises that you do not honor?
I've had it with this prison now that the world is mine"

I was in the minibus when the driver asked me before we go: "this is a novel?".
- Yes, it is about the life of Salima Murad
- Wow, seems interesting.
- Yes, sure it is.
- Naim Kattan?
- Yes he is the writer; he is an Iraqi Jew living in Canada.
- Do you write?
- Not really.
- I write poems, and I study literature in the evening.
- This is great, hope all the success to you.
- Thanks. I like Jerji Zidan. He is Christian. Some consider him as orientalist. Maybe the author of your novel is an orientalist!
- …….
- No, I don't think so. Iraqi Jewish likes Iraq. They are Iraqi. True Iraqis.
- ….. (I smiled)
- …..(he smiled)

When I went out of the bus, he kept looking at me waiting that I greet him. I saluted him. He saluted me smiling. I put my hand on my heart.

"He is far away, my enchanting love

Full of pride, majesty and delicacy

Sure-footed walking like a king
Oppressive beauty and rapacious glory

Redolent of charm like the breeze of the valleys

Pleasant to experience like the night's dreams
I've lost forever the charm of your company that radiated brilliantly

I, wandering in love, a bewildered butterfly, approached you

And between us, desire was a messenger and drinking companion that presented the cup to us"

The novel of "Farida" is said to be about the life of Salima Murad. Her picture is in the cover of the novel. I knew that Nathum Al Ghazalli did marry Salima Basha but this was not clear in the novel. The novel ends in the late 40s while Salima Basha is losing her lover and companion Salim who decided to go to Israel. Novel ends while Salima Basha Murad is alone, totally alone, having a big house, a cabaret, and will have a car and a driver. She was alone, didn't need anyone, but was not sure that she was happy.



"I have had a chance to visit ruins. The first were the ruins of Babylon. As I child, I felt them rarely, it was only later that I realised that they had become an inseparable part of my past, like historical memory, and when I had a chance to see again, in the Berlin Museum, the reconstructed temple to the goddess Ishtar and especially a vase with an inscription in Hebrew, I had a feeling that I was reliving history in the present moment and that my birth was becoming lost in time and that it no longer belonged to me."

From the Speech by Mr Naïm Kattan on the Occasion of the Award of his Honorary Doctorate from the University of Novi Sad

"Had love seen two as intoxicated as us?

So much hope we had built up around us

And we walked in the moonlit path, joy skipping along ahead of us

And we laughed like two children together

And we ran and raced our shadows"

Naïm Kattan was born in 1928 in Baghdad, in Iraq where he completed his elementary and secondary education and where he studied Law. In 1947 he received a scholarship from the French Government to study French Language and Literature at the Sorbonne. He received a doctorate in French Literature. Following that, in 1954, he immigrated to Canada to be one of the most famous writers of Canada and one of its most distinguished professors of literature.

"And we became aware after the euphoria and woke up

If only we did not awaken

Wakefulness ruined the dreams of slumber

The night came and the night became my only friend

And then the light was an omen of the sunrise
And the dawn was towering over like a conflagration

And then the world was as we know it,
with each lover in their own path"

I keep asking myself if there is still a hope that people like Naim Kattan can go back someday to Iraq. For a visit at least. His novel "Farida" reached Baghdad which embraced it and newspapers started to write about it. The welcoming of the novel is not that warm. Many are not finding time to read a novel. But most will listen if you talk to them about this novel. About Salima Murad. About old cabarets of Baghdad.

"Oh sleepless one who slumbers and remembers the promise when you wake up

Know that if a wound begins to recover another wound crops up with the memory

So learn to forget and learn to erase it"

In his speech while receiving the honorary doctorate, Naim Kattan mentioned Um Kalthum's song "Al Atlal (=the Ruins)". And linked it to his memories of his old places. Of Iraq. I went to my neighbor and asked him about this song. He gave it to me after a search that lasted about half an hour. I kept saying: "please don't bother yourself". But he said: "you never asked of Um Kalthum before, I was surprised you ask about her today, I must find her for you".

- Do you know where "Al Hilal Cabaret" was?
- I think in Al Midan sequare in Bab Al Muathem. I got a picture of an old cabaret in Al Midan.
- Is it still working
- Ha ha ha, you make me laugh Sami. Of course not. Look at it. It is forgotten.
-

"My darling everything is fated

It is not by our hands that we make our misfortune
Perhaps one day our fates will cross when our desire to meet is strong enough
For if one friend denies the other and we meet as strangers
And if each of us follows his or her own way
Don't say it was by our own will

But rather, the will of fate"

He found the song for me at last and I am listening to it since about 5 hours. It is 40 minutes long. Its lyrics were written by a poet called Ibrahim Naji. He was a doctor as far as I know. The lyrics are in the rosy italic font.
At last let us dream that peace will come and stay in Baghdad, in all Iraq, and all people can visit our country, their country, which will regain its charm.

The translation of Um Kalthum's song is taken from this site:
http://www.allthelyrics.com/forum/arabic-lyrics-translation/58223-oum-kalthoum-al-atlal.html

Return of the Violet Fingers

Like the previous voting, I and he were not sure that we will vote till the day of voting. In the previous voting we met at the door of the voting buildings. I didn't know that this will happen again. Now that it is night and I am making my dinner I turned on my laptop to see my desktop with this Berber Algerian woman with her hand colored by holy Henna. I raised my index finger to check its color. It looks like holy Henna.

"I don't know" was the usual answer he was answering my question about whether he will vote. I was also "don't know". I have finished yesterday at 11:30 pm the eighteen tables of my thesis and sent them via email to a specialist in biostatistics. I felt so sleepy, took a novel and an orange and went to bed. I ate the orange; put the novel next to my pillow and passed quickly into deep sleep. It is a national recess from work and I need not to wake up early. I woke up this morning very early. I didn't look at the clock, I just passed into deep sleep again. I woke up at 11:00 am. Woooow. It feels so good. I will be as lazy as I want today. I started some slow cleaning in the kitchen. I took the garbage out. I asked my Assyrian neighbor: "where can we vote?"

At home I started drinking coffee while I opened the TV and I saw Maisoon Al Damalouji. I love and respect this woman. Her face reminds me that I love Iraq. Her speech makes me proud of being an Iraqi. I finished my coffee and took my clothes and went to vote. My name was not in the first school, nor in the second. They told me to check a third school which was little far. I went sadly and frightened that I won't find it but I found it and said with a loud voice: "Here it is!"

In the voting room I saw very beautiful women. They were all smiling. They were very very kind as if from heaven. I voted. They said: "Thank you". I said: "thank you" with a smile and went walking. I saw many families walking happy. The father's and mother's index fingers are colored by that ink. I saw him coming. We greeted each other with kisses like Iraqis usually do. I went back with him waiting while he voted. He didn't ask me for whom I voted. Nor I did ask him. We are Iraqis with different views and this is our way to show respect to each other. We went back walking slowly and talking about memories of how our quarter was so beautiful before hoping that it will regain its charm while we were proud of our violet fingers.

Hajanjalie Bajanjalie

Was it Melanie Klien who said once that children are psychotic?

7 up
Knocked the door
Pepsi show itself
And the Krash (Krash= an old gaseous beverage in Baghdad)
Is in the bed
Crying yes he is

They told me to wait till they call my name. There was something wrong with my papers. They were so slow. I became irritable. My bladder was full of the 2 Coffee cups I drunk early that morning. My mouth was bitter. I was pacing round and round till I finally asked the soldier: "please my brother, I need a W.C.". He smiled hiding his innocent shyness and showed me the way to a far small building.
When I came back I was walking slowly. I was relieved. I noticed her. She is a princess dreaming of her castle and her courageous prince. She talks phantoms. She laughs. She cries then shakes her head. Makes some gestures, then plays in the soil creating stories. It is the kingdom of childhood that finally made me smile in this ugly day.

Hajanjalie bajanjalie (two words with no meaning just to go with the rhyme, in Arabic)
I climbed up to the mountain
I found one dome, 2 domes
I yelled: "hey you, uncle Husain"
This is the Sultan's Makam (Makam= the place a famous dead person visited once)
Hold up your legs you Umran (Umran is a male Arabic first name)

I am making the final part of my thesis. The tables and biostatistics of the data is really annoying. I am not enjoying it lately. Actually it started to annoy me. I want just to end it and get rid of it. I got to end it in few days to keep the chance of entering the final examination this October. I was stressed lately and become little irritable. I started to prefer avoiding people again. I thought I should take a walk. I suspected that I will feel better. I drunk Pepsi and my bladder became full again. oh God. I felt thirsty again but my bladder is full. I stopped next to a man who sell Pepsi and said: "I would buy Pepsi from you if you show me a nearby W.C.". He laughed and showed me an old building. When I came back to him, took my Pepsi, I took a picture to the ceiling above him. He looked at the ceiling thinking there is something strange. He looked at me. I looked at him. His eyes said: "you are crazy don't you?". I went walking felling much better. I saw a child on the bridge. He was throwing bread to those beautiful white sea gulls with ugly voices. Their ugly voices made me smile. Oh child you are the only one this day that I felt I can talk to really. I am just afraid you might get afraid from me. I asked him if I can take a picture for him while he through bread and he yelled while throwing more happily: "Surrrrrrrrrrrrre!".

Then he looked at me and said:
- You like pictures?
- VERY MUCH INDEED!
- Want to take a picture for you with the birds?
- Surrrrrrrrrrrrrre!!!

The words in rosy colour are my trial to translate two of the most common childhood songs in Iraq. They are really loosening of association that I most like.

These Days

"I was walking around, just a face in the crowd
Trying to keep myself out of the rain
Saw a vagabond king wear a styrofoam crown
Wondered if I might end up the same
There's a man out on the corner
Singing old songs about change
Everybody got their cross to bare, these days"


I reach my job after 2 hours in cars crowds. It annoys me. The psychiatry ward is in the 10th floor. I don't like the oppression in the elevator. It is good to have some sport after all that smoking. Patients are going down in stairs. A man with a urine bag. A woman with a syringe filled with blood. A young man holding many blankets. The cleaner who wears that ugly cleaners' uniform is sitting at the ladder next to his broom smoking.


"She came looking for some shelter with a suitcase full of dreams
To a motel room on the boulevard
Guess she's trying to be james dean
She's seen all the disciples and all the wanna bes
No one wants to be themselves these days
Still there's nothing to hold on to but these days"


Her face contains two deep longitudinal furrows above her Caucasian nose. She is white and slim with a tint of hidden sorrow and untold stories. Her beauty made her cleaners' uniform holy beautiful in my single eyes. She remembers I was giving her long eye contacts before 2 years. When she saw me after this long time she gave a smile. I gave her a smile while my fingers invaded my hair. Three white hairs appeared in my head since some time. I should stop running Fromm freedom since I have passed 30 years by some days.

"Jimmy shoes busted both his legs, trying to learn to fly
From a second story window, he just jumped and closed his eyes
His momma said he was crazy - he said momma I've got to try
Don't you know that all my heroes died
And I guess I'd rather die than fade away"


Today I was walking across the bridge when I saw the fence was broken from a side. "an invitation to suicide?". At ward my colleague said: "90% of those who commit suicide got mental illness". I kept thinking about the 10%. Existence is a stranger at some Algerian sea next to Camus. Existence is sometimes a Saterian nausea. While Hemingway said Farwell to arms.


"These days - the stars seem out of reach
But these days - there ain't a ladder on these streets
These days are fast, love don't lasts-in this graceless age
Even innocence has caught the midnight train
And there ain't nobody left but us these days"


The words between brackets are the lyrics of Bon Jovi song "These Days".

While Hilla is Water

When Hilla is a word
It is a vibrating tone
Echoes of which are floating
With heavenly river waves
Fresh cold warm waves touching my naked feet and say:
Hilla

I went to Hilla before few days. In the road I saw those magical palm orchards that I always dream I can go inside one day. I saw small villages that I feel myself belonging to. I always think of myself as a person from a village. I hate cities. I hate car crowds. I hate huge buildings. I like those old brick factories which make bricks from mud. I like those factories even if they emit smoke. The pollution they cause is much less than that caused by cities. There smoke will be cleaned by the holy water, water of Hilla.

When Hilla is a river
The shores of my mind
The boats of my happiness
The moons of my night
Are colored in blue love and uttering:
Hilla

I finally reached al Hilla. I found her (the word "city" is feminine in Arabic) preparing for the day of Ashoura'a. The day which remembers us of the martyrdom of Imam Al Hussein. It is a sad day where people put black flags and some other symbols. A sadness that I found oppressing during my first days in Hilla in 2003, but a quiet sadness that I loved profoundly later. A quietness that I missed, kindness that I submit to, and music that made me surrender.

When Hilla is a lady
The road to her is my lullaby
The walk with her streets is my dream
Her lovely voice mesmerizes me
When she says her name:
Hilla

I went deliberately to the area where one of the most violent explosions occurred in Hilla in 2004. It is a crowded market. Market of street of doctors. My friend had cried that day. A lady from Hilla told the police that her husband had gave shelter to the man who exploded himself. The man who exploded himself was not Iraqi. The police took the ladies husband. I never felt being one day afraid from Hilla. On the reverse I am so afraid from Baghdad. In each street I walk in Baghdad, each car I look at in a crowd, I feel there is a hidden possibility of an explosion. In Hilla I forget about war, loud whistles from ambulances and police cars, and explosions. In Hilla I only find peace and security. A slow walk in this lovely market only makes me more quite and slow. And if I may die once my God, let it be here.

In the market, different odors will touch your nose. You will hear from now and then a man shouting behind you "Balak Balak…..Balak Balak" (=be aware be aware….). they are the men who push merchandise in some old wagon. I never felt I dislike this crowd. This crowd is something holy for me.

I asked a man if I can reach the market of the ceiling (Souk Al Musaggaf) from between the houses on the side. He stood and with big care started to told me to pass right, then right, then left, then I forgot… I went to Al Mahdya quarter walking remembering my stylish friend Maithem who took me once for a walk here. He was so stylish in dress. He was so proud of this old quarter of Al Hilla. It was new for me to see a young man being proud of an old quarter. I learned that from him. Now I am proud of this too. I love these buildings. I adore those people.

I lose my way in Al Mahdya. I went left, right, left, right, right, then I was again the old market I was. I went to a library in this market. Market of Sharaa Al Atibaa (=street of doctors). I found books about everything. Books about religion, atheism, cooking, psychology, computer systems, history of Hilla, poetry, politics, jokes, and others. I found a book written by a Tunisian psychiatrist trying to psychoanalyze the personality of the prophet Mohammed, prophet of Islam. Isn't this great? They are really open minded those people. When I asked the library man why the book price is so high in spite of being a used book, he told me that it is a rare book. So he knows this book.

I bought the book which accompanied me during me way back to Baghdad feeling refreshed and filled with passion while I was from time to time meditate in the traditional clothes of the old man who sat in front of me in the bus.

I am a thirsty camel
Desert filled my eyes with dust
My feet went dry and scaly
While water is called
Hilla

Algerian rain

In Iraq, we call the umbrella as Shamsya (=protector from sun). I have never been in a rainy city like I was in 2005 in Alger, the capital of Algeria. Every day I was going back home wet. One day I noticed all people are carrying Shamsyas except me and few eccentric people. I went running to a shop and asked him:

- Please, do you sell Shamsyas?
- What?
- Shamsya?
- …..?????
- ….this one I mean (I pointed to an umbrella).
- Uhh!! You mean Matarya (=protect from rain).



An Algerian poet said once: "the long distance between Algeria and Iraq is a geographical error".

Maybe it was because of the geographical error I wasn't able to follow the loosening of association of the first part of the novel. Some Algerian symbols were not clear due to the eastern dust in my Iraqi eyes. After the first 60 pages I passed, an Algerian rain cleared my eyes heralding the completion of a circle of understanding.

I was once watching the agerian satellite channel when I saw a delicate man talking with a warm voice about something that I forgot. He cause my attention. I knew after few minutes of watching that he is Wasini Al Araj.

When I saw his novel in Al Kamle publications in Bab Al Muaatham in Baghdad, the first thing to attract my attention was the picture of the cover. How can somebody see such a cover and don't think about buying the novel?

That child in the cover took me to trip in Algeria. The child was talking to me in an Algerian accent that I failed to follow at first. The child was sad. He left me alone and went murmuring things I failed to understand.
When I was alone, the sky started to rain on me. I felt afraid at first but after the second half of the novel I could form a circle of clouds of understanding. Wasini started to talk with his lovely voice to my cold frightened ears.

He told me about the hero of his novel, the journalist. He was a regular writer in an Algerian newspaper. His regular line is entitled: "from the archive". He was well till he started to believe that he is meeting one of the martyrs of the Algerian revolution. The martyr was his father. He knew that there would come a solar eclipse on Algeria that will last for some long time. If children and farmers would look at the sun they would become blind. The journalist started to be obsessed with that hospital of plastic surgery where they cut the noses of individuals. They also change the eyes and brain. They make all people look the same. They tried to inhibit him from continuing his research and his writings but he insisted till he was fired. His regular line was changed to a line written by somebody else entitled: "come with me".

The journalist was named after his mother, a thing that is rare, if possible, in the Arab world these days. He was called as the son of Aicha Limnaoura (=lighted life).
The novel was written in the 1980s. It seems that Wassini felt that an eclipse will come to Algeria. the title of his novel is something really complex. It got 2 titles. The second, the long one is easy, it means "the last witness on the assassination of the sea cities". The first title is something that I cannot translate easily. It means maybe: "the conscience of the absent".
After all, I hope that in 2009 Algeria is much better. I hope I can meet that child again. I hope I will see him happy and that we will dance together under the Algerian rain.

Happy Poetic Hair Cut

I went for my hair cut in Al Rasheed street. From all the barber shops in Baghdad I chose a classic one. It was the barber shop of the Beatles fans in the 70s as one colleague said to me one day in 2006. I went there once and found 4 men above 50 running the shop. They are calm, slow, and silent. There are always some old Arabic songs played on their TV screen. Um Kalthum songs are the most common. I cannot change them now. All of them had cut my hair at least once. But sooner me and him, the third chair one, knew that I should always come and sit in his chair cause he will know what I want without talking. The other three men know that I will wait my turn to have a hair cut in that third chair. The price of the hair cut is the lowest in Baghdad in their wonderful shop. They don't start talking at all, but if you talk they would talk with you for a while seriously and kindly. Then they will go back to their silence waiting for you if wanna talk again. Sometimes they are visited by a friend of them when they will start talking spontaneously with him a little. Their friends always don't stay too long.







I always feel great after I went out from my hair cut. I went to Al Mutanabbee street to find it paved and clean. This street had suffered a wild explosion since about 2 years. I didn't know that it is fixed. I knew they were working on it but I forgot that. Wow it is nice and some new things are added here. Oh yes it is time when I feel I like my Baghdad. I found 2 new novels of Taher Bin Jalloun, and 2 books on Iraq, one of Khalid Al Kishtainy and the other by Rasheed Khayoun. I bought them and went back walking slowly over the bridge of martyrs above Tigris smiling widely to Baghdad.