مصطفي يحيي's Blog: مُصطفى يحيى

 "A Pursuit of Chaos"

In moments of clarity, we often find ourselves standing on the edge of truth, fully aware of what is right and wrong. Yet, with baffling regularity, we leap into the arms of folly. We know the harm that awaits, and yet, we let ourselves fall. Why do we, as rational beings, so willingly choose the path of self-destruction?

Philosophy offers us many explanations for this peculiar human trait. Ancient philosophers, from Socrates to Nietzsche, grappled with the paradox of human irrationality. Socrates, with his relentless pursuit of knowledge, believed that to know the good was to do the good. But history has shown us time and again that knowledge alone is not enough. Nietzsche, on the other hand, saw human behavior as driven by deeper forces—will, power, and the chaos within. For him, our actions are not just dictated by reason but by the primal forces we often refuse to acknowledge. We rebel against the very truth we hold.

Throughout history, this folly has manifested in countless ways. Think of the great tragedies of human ambition, from wars to personal betrayals. Julius Caesar, walking into the Senate on the Ides of March, knew full well the conspiracies brewing around him. But did he retreat? Did he choose caution? No. History and ambition blinded him, as they have blinded so many others before and after him. And perhaps it is this very blindness—a deliberate one—that drives us toward disaster. The fool’s path is not always accidental; it is often chosen.

But beyond the philosophical, beyond the grand narratives of history, there is something deeply personal about our flirtation with folly. It is as if, in moments of lethargy or hubris, we choose to test the universe, to see if the consequences we know will follow might just, for once, be suspended. We flirt with the idea that we are exceptions, that the rules governing harm and consequence don’t apply to us, at least not this time.

And here lies the poetic tragedy: knowing, but ignoring. Feeling the weight of truth, but lifting the feather of foolishness. It is this dance with the absurd that defines our struggle. We know that overeating harms us, but we indulge. We understand the weight of procrastination, but we let time slip away. We see the truth, clear as the midday sun, and still, we chase shadows.

Perhaps, in the end, folly is not the opposite of wisdom, but a part of it. It reminds us of our limits, of the ways in which our hearts and minds are in constant conflict. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a strange beauty in that—in knowing the truth but daring to walk the edge of chaos anyway. For in that folly, in that recklessness, we glimpse both our fragility and our power.

 "A Round Trip Journey"

"What makes us who we are? What defines our essence?"

This was the question that haunted my adolescence and continues to puzzle me to this day. Who are we? Who am I? What makes me think the thoughts I have, and what drives me to the actions I take? Why did I make the specific choices I made?

At that distant time, I was not yet acquainted with Descartes and his assertion that thinking confirms our existence in this world: "Cogito, ergo sum." But I doubt his answer would have satisfied my curiosity back then. My doubt was not about existence itself but about the nature of that existence.

In a vague way, I felt that the details of my life defined me—the place I was born, the people I lived with, the events that occurred in my life might have steered my thoughts in one direction over another. Although these were my feelings during my teenage years, Jean-Paul Sartre remained too complex for me. I couldn’t grasp how others could be hell. Those statements seemed artificial, like meaningless slogans.

I believe if I had understood Sartre back then, I could have avoided many of life's unfortunate incidents. Most of the people around me were hell itself, and except for two individuals, I did not want to be with anyone else. Yet, they continued to shape my life experiences, pushing me toward an introverted path, where I drowned in my own world, perhaps driving me to love reading and books, and escaping into distant imaginary worlds. This traditional path led me to life’s incidents without realizing the absurdity of this story.

I didn’t understand Sartre, nor did I comprehend how he suddenly concluded his ethical philosophy advocating for freedom and social responsibility. Sartre seemed complex and illogical to me. I was immersed in my personal experiences, facing misery and mistreatment, and my instinct was to distance myself from all this misery.

It wasn’t until later that I realized that Sartre, unlike most existential philosophers, was trying to emphasize not to follow blindly what personal experience shaped you into. He was advocating for liberation from personal experience and stepping into the broader human principles that shaped European modernity.

Now, I lean towards viewing Sartre as a social philosopher who used existentialism as a path to promote European modernity in society. Although many started from the same point—social experience and knowledge—each philosopher ended up with a different stance. For example, John Locke saw the mind as a blank slate (Tabula Rasa), written on by human experience, leading to an epistemological approach to explaining the knowledge in the world. In contrast, David Hume saw human identity as a chameleon, changing with its movement; a series of impressions and ideas shaped by changing experiences, nearly nullifying the concept of identity itself.

I read these philosophers and understood nothing. When I emerged from my teenage years unscathed, I discovered Viktor Frankl and loved his extraordinary journey to find freedom and meaning. Perhaps it was Frankl who made me return to Sartre to understand him better, although I still relish the idea of existence preceding essence, which should guide identity towards ethics.

My encounter with Martin Heidegger’s philosophy was a stormy one. Unlike the ethical Sartre, Heidegger was provocative. The first thing I read was his letters to his lover, Hannah Arendt, the philosopher who trivialized the motives of evil and contemplated revolution. I wasn’t convinced by a word Heidegger said, except perhaps his talk about the impossibility of translation. The concept of a person conveying truth about the world and aligning with it in one existence resembled mystical talk, akin to what I read about the union of God and matter, pantheism, and a long history I engaged with from Hallaj to Ibn Arabi—all those philosophical and interpretive mazes that twist around meanings and the simplicities of things.

In my mid-twenties, I was fascinated by how my search for an answer to my question led me into endless mazes and how most philosophers started from what I thought was the beginning of explanation and ended up with things that didn’t align with each other in any way, except that they emerged from the womb of European modernity and materialistic thinking.

But as I began to become independent and decide whom to keep around me and whom to leave behind forever, the answer appeared differently to me.

"What makes us who we are?"

My answer was, "Our actions," not what happened to us. Our choices define who we are.

My answer was heavily influenced by what I read from Viktor Frankl: how our response to what happens to us defines our identity. This is nearly the essence of Sartre’s philosophy. While Sartre advocated responding according to ethics, Frankl called for seeking a personal value that guides your responses.

I spent a significant amount of time influenced by this idea, enjoying the newly discovered freedom. I suppressed my anger, smiled in the face of my enemies, and decided for myself how to spend my day.

Then I encountered the concept of collective consciousness in my readings of Jung. I disliked Freud's sexual analyses, perhaps because they revealed more about myself than I could bear or because they put catastrophic ideas in my head. Thus, my escape from Freud to Carl Jung was, at its core, an attempt to "get easy with myself."

My reading of Freud stemmed from my admiration for Frankl; both were psychologists, and someone told me, "If you’re going to read psychology, you must start with Freud."

Carl Jung introduced me to another layer and presented the world to me. The concept of the collective unconscious that we all share was new to me. The shared symbols that enter the world of dreams to shape our consciousness or are shared among us began to alert me that I am not an individual separate from the world, but rather part of a greater existence. And this was another disaster, for I had not yet discovered myself to then recognize humanity and its unconscious symbols.

But this idea brought me back to a point I had encountered with Descartes and quickly abandoned: the mind. But not the conscious, thinking mind aware of what it thinks, but the unconscious mind that stores images and experiences and disturbs our sleep. A mind closer to feeling, or the ability to store emotions.

This idea terrified me, this strange mix between mind and heart, between the illogical and the emotional. I began to feel that "my identity" was a puzzle, a mystery that couldn’t be solved, and this caused me a degree of frustration.

I had abandoned the idea that past life events dictate our actions in subsequent days. I began to see it as a defeatist and negative idea. But I faced it again with modern French philosophy.

In my early thirties, during my master's studies, I discovered Michel Foucault. He was my wide gate to modern philosophy. I hadn’t previously engaged with modern philosophy, especially French, except through the writings of Abdelwahab Elmessiri and his fierce attack on material modernity. Unfortunately, not much French philosophy has been translated, and what has been translated is stuck in academic circles, not available to a wider audience. Thus, my encounter with it was academic.

Foucault’s revolutionary ideas resonated with my adolescence. Analyzing power and deconstructing it was very entertaining, and the tools he provided seemed intriguing. From Foucault, I ventured into Althusser, Jacques Derrida, Charles Taylor, Judith Butler's gender theory, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, and all the phenomenological philosophy group that starts from sensory experience as the beginning of forming identity and meaning. Phenomenology was a blend of David Hume, John Locke, William James, and John Dewey, and although the movement started from Marxism, which began as an extension of a Hegelian concept, it seemed different to me.

The focus of phenomenology was on experience separate from identity without any preconceived ideas or essence preceding identity as Sartre claimed; it was just matter and nothing more. It was a call to reconsider the world with an empty mind.

But as I tried to do that, I found that the world reproduces itself. I spent a long time meditating, but amidst my meditations, I found that even if I faced the world with an empty mind and discarded all my preconceived ideas, my identity would be reshaped anew, and I would fail to face my experiences without preconceived notions, finding that my identity—as David Hume said—would turn into a series of impressions that change every moment.

But as I finished my studies, I tried to avoid this question entirely. I tried to let myself become a social product driven by politics and shaped by economic motives, seeking to find something to sustain me.

And whenever I was faced with the question: Who, the heck, am I?

I simply answer: I just don’t know.

"The Eternal Quest for Meaning"

I can earnestly say that I dwell more in daydreams than in the realm of reality. Often, I find myself detaching from my interlocutor, plunging into a newly conjured daydream that, more often than not, seems far superior to the reality of the moment.

Sometimes, I claim to be pondering a novel idea or a study I’m working on, but truth be told, I'm often fabricating. I've repeatedly attempted to translate these daydreams into the literary world, yet reality looms over and imposes itself onto any text I try to immerse in as deeply as I do in my daydreams.

Regrettably, the dream I live in during wakefulness is filled with whimsical elements that satisfy a deep psychological need within me, replacing a missing sensation. These often involve very childlike desires: the yearning for admiration or love, the desire to be cherished by those we admire or seek to emulate, only to find that they, in turn, become one’s admirers. There's a longing for rebellion, for breaking away to distant worlds alone, where one can simply relish nature, literature, or the company of animals. A desire to break the shackles merely because they constrict and confine our dreams to a suffocatingly small space.

More disheartening is that these fanciful dreams and wild desires, merely attempts at savoring life, do not suffice to compose a novel in themselves. They might serve as a prelude or an introduction, but a novel requires structure, treatment, transformations, and a journey of self-discovery. It must convey an artistic vision and philosophical depth to be considered a worthy literary text.

But what if the protagonist has no desire to embark on any kind of journey? What if his philosophy is solely to enjoy life, living out his artistic visions in fleeting daydreams that evaporate, leaving nothing but a sweet residue of happiness?

Such a character might well be accused of nihilism, of being an Epicurean, or perhaps seen as a follower of John Stuart Mill. A novel with such a character might be viewed as continuing the legacies of Henry Miller or even Bukowski.

Humanity has done everything before, and it seems that all new ideas are merely iterations and transformations of old ones. No one can truly claim to have created something new.

I have contemplated writing a novel that intertwines many threads into a single narrative. After writing and publishing it (here, I refer to my novel “al-Qannas”: "The Sniper"-2018), I discovered Marcel Proust and his "In Search of Lost Time," and I laughed at myself in scorn.

Sometimes I wonder, why bother innovating? Isn't it enough to simply enjoy what you are doing? Here I return to daydreaming again. If enjoyment is the ultimate goal, why write at all? Why try to prove anything to anyone?

I recall Nozick and the experience machine he discussed in "Anarchy, State, and Utopia." What is the purpose of life—to achieve happiness or self-realization? Are these goals contradictory or intertwined? Why did Neo rebel against the Matrix, and why did he choose the red pill? Why wasn’t Winston content with his totalitarian world and sought love, rebellion, and truth? Why didn’t Raskolnikov just enjoy the money he stole from the old woman and drown in his philosophical and psychological musings? Why did Jonas in "The Giver" try to reveal the truth to people instead of enjoying the fabricated world?

Is self-realization the path to ultimate happiness? Why doesn’t a person just imagine achieving his true self in his daydreams and be content with that? Why strive to make it a reality? And what is reality? Are we living in a world of truth, or a world of fantasy, or are we merely living in a grand illusion as ancient philosophers claimed?

It's curious how this idea has captivated scientists and philosophers through the ages, from philosophers like the Pythagoreans, Heraclitus, and Parmenides, to philosophical currents like Indian Vedanta, which sees the reality we live in as an illusion (Maya) and the ultimate truth (Brahman) reached through the higher self (Atman), to renowned scholars like George Berkeley who believed that the physical existence of things depends solely on their perception. For him, objects do not exist independently of the minds that perceive them.

Why not create a parallel existence with our minds and daydreams then? This was the idea I incorporated into my novel "al-Immlaq al-Dahik”: "The Laughing Giant," published in 2012, where human perception expands to overlay reality, forming a parallel reality and crafting another truth.

But this was before I encountered holographic philosophy, which considers the world to be a very large hologram.

The situation is amusing. It appears that there are no truly original ideas in reality, and all ideas are extensions and transformations of other ideas. There is no original creator, no idea truly born from nothing, or created from the void. This takes us to the concept of creation and the meaning of God, which is not my topic here anyway.

What I mean to say is that although daydreams are merely illusions, they can seem very real for a moment, pushing us toward amusing beliefs and attractive thoughts that perhaps the daydream is the real thing and the world is the grand illusion.

Which life are you truly living? The dream or reality? This was a fascinating topic explored by the 2012 series "Awake."

Why do we cling to reality and drown in dreams? Is it our desire to elevate reality to the level of dreams?

This desire has never been realized in any historical experiment. And even when humans address it in an artistic or creative work, their thoughts soon lead them to realize it's a trick—a political, scientific, or societal trick that creates this beautiful illusory world hiding an unbearable ugliness.

Why doesn't a person believe in his dreams even in the dream itself?

This dividing line... this firewall... this impregnable barrier that a person creates between himself and his self, then goes to cross it a thousand times a day in search of salvation, rejecting reality and opposing the dream.

Why do I love my daydream but refuse to live in it forever? Is it a lie I concoct to claim idealism for myself? Is it a deep-rooted foolishness that savors misery and pain? Is it a planted conviction in myself that believes beauty and happiness are illusions masking an unbearable ugliness?

I doubt anyone in this world can answer such questions. It is the Sisyphean misery to travel between dream and reality, to reject both the dream and the reality, to push the rock to the summit of the mountain only to let it fall from the other side once it reaches its goal.

" A Mocking Smile at the face of Titans"

Ever since I saw thatimage—a young Palestinian kid standing defiantly in front of an Israeli tank,hurling stones—I've been haunted by thoughts of freedom and independence. Justthink about it: a stone against a tank, a kid against a trained soldier. Itgives me goosebumps.

This image stirs upall kinds of respect and admiration within me. It's my go-to mental imagewhenever I'm feeling down or defeated. Feeling beaten is a choice, and so isthe desire to resist—even if it's just with stones against a tank. But thelatter? That's the choice of a winner, the choice of someone who's achieved adeep sense of independence and imposed it on the world.

Fast forward to now,and you see how this generation that once threw stones at their enemy has grownup to shake the very existence of Israel occupation of Palestine, making eventhe highest Israeli officials tremble as they speak at press conferences. That isthe real power of choice.

I've always wished Icould tap into that kind of power and impose my will on the world just likethey did. How could I lend a hand in their awe-inspiring resistance againstoccupation and the desecration of Islamic holy sites? The answer has alwaysbeen crystal clear: Boycott.

Economic boycott ofanything and everything that supports this distasteful Zionist presence in ourArab lands. But here's the kicker: a lot of people question what a boycott canactually achieve. They downplay its importance and dismiss it asinconsequential.

That's why I decided it'stime to give this topic the attention it deserves. I mean, if a kid with astone could make waves, imagine what a whole community could do with a focusedplan of action.

What does boycottingmean?

Let's go back a bitand see what we're saying we want to boycott. We want to boycott foreigncompanies that offer their products and services on Egyptian and Arab lands,because they support and endorse positions that harm Arab interests. Now, directlyand abruptly, these companies are showing and declaring their financial supportfor the Zionist entity in their killing of our people in Gaza and Palestine.

These companies arewhat we used to call transnational corporations back in the 90s, but the termhas become less used as these companies have become ubiquitous around us.

What's the tale behindthese corporations?

Transnationalcorporations didn't really start in the 90s or even the 50s, but much earlier,around the late Middle Ages and the onset of the European Renaissance. Theirmain role was to sell the modern European lifestyle in exchange for the wealthof other nations. And as we know, economics has a significant political side; apolitical leader can hardly function without a businessman serving his interest.Let's delve into the story from the beginning...

 

Titan Corporations

One of the earliesttranscontinental corporations was the Hudson's Bay Company, establishedin 1670. Yes, that’s right, over 350 years ago. It was involved in fur tradebetween newly discovered North America and the indigenous people, who are theNative Americans.

Hudson's Bay Companywould buy fur from Native Americans and sell them European goods like clothing,fabrics, blankets, glassware, knives, saws, axes, dishes, pots, and even alcohol.Know what else? They sold them weapons. (Does that ring any bells?) All thesethings were products that Native Americans couldn’t produce themselves, so theytraded fur for them.

Now, where would theyget a lot of fur to exchange for weapons and other goods to improve themselves?Exactly, they hunted more and more animals. But these animals were essentiallytheir food source. As they hunted them at a rate higher than theirreproduction, the animals began to disappear, impacting their primary foodsource.

With a lack ofnutrition, diseases began to spread among them. Their environment, social,cultural, and economic patterns changed, making them dependent on Europeanproducts, which became a fundamental part of their traditional and naturallifestyle. This led to increased differences and tensions between NativeAmericans and Europeans, revealing the real deal with the weapons they tradedfor fur.

Imagine!!  just the exchange of fur for some alcohol,pots, and weapons caused disasters to Native Americans!!

Here’s a last tidbit.About 368 treaties were signed between Native Americans and colonizers, whetherEuropean or US, all of which were broken. Consequently, this nation nearlyvanished from history.

 

Colonial KnowledgeFormation:

In 1672, anothersignificant corporation emerged - the Royal African Company. Theiragenda was clear cut... slave trading. They’d snatch slaves from Jamaica andship them to North America. Even the high and mighties in Jamaica and otherAfrican nations were down with the slave trade.

Slave trade was veryprofitable for the African nations. Initially, the colonizing countries,primarily Britain, supported and established infrastructure like ports, roads,and bridges to ease transportation of course. But the country was being developed.The money paid for slaves also helped in providing resources, expandingagricultural production, and extending trade networks between Europe andAfrican countries, hence flourishing the economy.

So, the topic is old,commit any disaster and say it's for economic development and country'sprogress, people will follow you.

 

The reality is, slavetrade led to accumulation of wealth for rulers and leaders at the expense ofthe poor and marginalized. This is known.

Later, in 1711,another very important company, The South Sea Company, was established.Its clear and explicit goal was to finance British debts through slave trade.Slaves and goods were transported between Europe, America, and Africa. Thoughit lasted about 10 years before collapsing, the slave trade itself continuedthrough other giant companies that took over, like the Dutch West IndiaCompany and the East India Company.

 

Economy, Epistemology, and Politics in Shaping the World:

About a year ago,Cambridge University declared the benefits it had from slave trade and thefinancial support it received from companies like the East India and RoyalAfrican. It had been established and continued with direct support fromthese companies.

Currently, it launcheda two-year research initiative to investigate its archives to see if the slavetrade was what gave it its scientific strength and status.

The funny and strangething is, this initiative is actually questioning whether the universitycontributed to shaping racist political opinion and supporting racist beliefsthat led to the flourishing of the slave trade. Professor Martin Millett, thehead of the research team for the initiative, said one of their goals is tounderstand how scholars at the university helped shape public political opinionduring that time.

 

Aside from thehuman rights hurly-burly

Now let’s see how theslave trade affected African countries and destroyed them. First, it reducedthe population in African countries and changed the population structureitself. The slaves being kidnapped or sold were in their prime, from youth totheir forties or fifties, hence leaving behind only children and the elderly,leading to a labor force deficit.

Therefore, the numberof people capable of farming and manufacturing drastically decreased, andconsequently, local industry and agriculture were destroyed. The leaders,rulers, and upper classes with financial resources became highly dependent onimports even for basic goods to live, thus completely relying on Europe forsupplying their basic needs.

The social destructionfrom slave trade and its impact on African countries was much larger. It led tothe destruction of families losing their loved ones, hence completelydisintegrating the social structure. This led to increased skirmishes andconflicts between tribes in their search for food and sustenance, especiallywith the spread of poverty. These conflicts resulted in the capture of someindividuals, who were then sold to get money to buy European goods to survive.

So, a continuousoutflow of real resources from the country in exchange for a bunch of temporaryconsumer products.

 

Do you see the role ofthese Titans, transcontinental corporations in draining a country's resourcesfor their benefit? Leaving the countries where they operate not only in severepoverty but also altering their consumption patterns and economic and socialstructures to remain dependent on them continually.

 

A New Generation ofCorporate Colonialism

After that, a newbreed of corporations started to emerge, corporates that directly and openlyextracting resources from countries, and others were providing a modern,sophisticated consumer product that was hard for the importing countries tomanufacture.

The first kind were corporationslike Standard Oil, founded in 1870 by John Davison Rockefeller (soundfamiliar?). Their main business was exploring for oil in colonies. This companyis considered the real forefather of multinational corporations as we know themin the 20th century. There were other companies like British Petroleumand Royal Dutch Shell, starting to explore and extract oil from Nigeria,Indonesia, Niger, etc. The second kind kicked off with Ford Motor Companyin the early 20th century, specifically in 1903, establishing factoriesworldwide with the goal of selling the posh American product in global markets.

Gradually, thenarrative shifted from brutal colonization and destruction, like what happenedwith Native Americans and Africans, to seemingly fair and normal trade. But, infact, it introduced a specific consumer pattern that you can’t emulate, alongwith certain behaviors and a culture that continually depends on it, inexchange providing them with economic resources. So, the idea is the same andthe business model hasn’t changed much, just got a bit disguised.

Local Economies andthe Titans

How does this affectyou?

Legend says these big Titancorporations provide job opportunities for the youth. But the truth iscompletely different. Let’s take a slow and steady look at the matter.

Firstly, offeringproducts or services at competitive prices destroys local industries andservices. This is because these corporation follows the principle of massproduction, meaning (put simply) its production costs are spread across a verylarge production volume, thus the cost per product is low, making the pricemuch lower than the local product whose production is spread across fewer itemshence a higher cost per unit.

This puts localindustries under constant pressure to compete with the cheaper importedproduct, often failing and disappearing. Here, the foreign company monopolizesthe market and raises its prices as it pleases.

Moreover, thefinancial power of these companies, along with their advanced advertisingtechniques, directs the consumption pattern in the society as they wish.

Their long-termpresence allows them to control the community's resources, whether labor,natural resources, or money, and they can not only control the local market butalso economic policies, the way that benefits their interests.

This automaticallyleads to the transfer of the community's wealth abroad, meaning all resourcesand money move out of the community to the countries owning these companies.

In short, thesecompanies act like giant pipette. Think of it as a huge straw, but on a verylarge scale.

 

The Myth of YouthJobs

Now, let’s address thelegend of providing job opportunities for the youth...

The truth is, itdestroyed the youth’s job opportunities, as it eliminated competition withinthe market. Instead of having three, or thirteen companies competing within thecommunity, it's just one company dominating the labor market. They hire whoeverthey want, determine wage levels as they wish, and lay off employees wheneverthey want without the young people having an alternative or a competing companyto work for.

Of course, we haven'ttalked about the cultural impact and how these companies determine socialbehaviors, changing values and priorities in the society.

 

The RevelationMoment:

Now it's clear to usthat the role of these companies is a covert colonial role, eventuallypromoting European and American values, and controlling global markets. Herecomes a very important revelation moment when it endorses the Israelioccupation, even supporting it by providing meals and financial support to theoccupying army.

There’s no middleground taken. No “all lives are sacred” Mo Salah’s kind of shit. No... It's aclear endorsement. And it shows us that it supports those who support itsinterests. And that it’s with the enemy on one side, with one common interest.

These companies comeand blatantly tell you that they support our enemy who kills our people anddesecrates our sanctities. And you still buy from them, letting them operate,continue, and prosper. And you're okay with continuing to be a cog in themachine that's destroying you from both ends: economically through thesecompanies themselves, and militarily, politically, and religiously as theymock, desecrate your religious sanctities, and destroy your people inPalestine.

It's exactly likeyou're killing yourself or committing suicide... spending your money to buy aknife to stab yourself with.

Do you see the bigpicture now?

Do you now understandwhat these companies are doing and what their impact is on me, on you, and onall of us? Did you see these images? Do you like them?

Now come, let’simagine a fictional world, after everyone actually boycotted these products andservices, and see what this world would look like.

Let's Fantasize.

Imaginary World:

First off, all these Titancorporations would shut down. Why? Because they bear huge operational costswithout any revenue or income, meaning a constantly losing resources. If theystay open, they’ll be paying for electricity, water, labor, etc., within the country,all from their own resources.

Now, if they close.

It’s all good. Thepeople and society are still here, with their needs. And since necessity is themother of invention, other alternatives will pop up. We've already seen thishappening with local and national companies stepping up with alternativeproducts.

With the people’ssupport in boycotting these big companies, which will act as positiveexternalities in economic terms, the national economy will slowly flourish.More companies meeting the community’s needs will emerge. More companiesoffering similar products will arise as they operate in the same market, withprices at a similar level.

Prices will graduallyreach a real equilibrium point where both the producer and consumer reach anoptimal economic state and maximized their surpluses.

Job opportunities forthe youth will increase, products will diversify to meet the actual needs ofthe people. Production methods will evolve, and local industries will slowlystrengthen; the community will produce its own innovations reflecting its trueneeds.

Consequently, the realidentity of the society will emerge, with its own products, production andconsumption patterns, evolving and diversifying the culture.

Moreover, this willtrain national companies to improve production methods, reduce costs andthereby prices, increasing the likelihood of exporting national industries.With reduced imports, the country’s trade balance will improve, strengtheningthe national currency, and elevating the value of the pound against the dollar.The market will be controlled by multiple national industries, not by a foreigncorporation representing the colonizer, and dictating the market as it pleases.

See the impact of theboycott you underestimate?

 

Boycott as aLifestyle:

Here, I must say, ourview of boycotts should change from being an economic punishment for apolitical action. Meaning, it shouldn’t only come up when we want to punish acompany or country for an offensive political or religious act, it should be alifestyle. A lifestyle ensuring, we step out of the cycle of someone offendingus, boycotting their products for a while, then going back to using them again.No... It gradually transforms us into a rising power, a competitor that thesecountries will gradually fear and think twice before offending.

 

The Real Choice:

Now you have bothpictures in front of you…

It’s left for you tobelieve that your simple individual action can lead to all these huge changes,and it will be the first step in a long journey with a far better ending thanthe current situation.

If you are one wholikes to criticize the surroundings and you don’t like the conditions in thecountry, here’s the one thing that can change everything in the country if youactually do it on an individual and simple level.

And always remember, achild with a stone had choices…

What’s your choice?

"A tale of time and value"

"شبكة روايات التفاعلية- Riwayat Network Forum"

Amidst the old belongings I'd shelved for ages, by purechance, I found them. Buried in these ancient, neglected items, lay a weatheredmanuscript, stiffened by time. It was the first novel I ever attempted duringmy university days, when a personal computer was a curious creature, I barelyunderstood. This tale spun a story of a young man who discovers that his familyare extraterrestrial beings. Yet, he conceals this secret and grapples with therealization that he, too, might be an alien, but chooses to live as an earthlyhuman, deciding his own destiny. Drafted at the dawn of the millennium onMicrosoft Word, it was printed on A4 sheets, then hidden away in a blue folder,surrounded by mountains of books.

 

Among Forgotten Things

I held the manuscript gently, opening it with caution.Memories flooded back of my first time writing it. I didn't own a computer backthen. Instead, I frequented the newly opened ‘Bibliotheca Alexandrina.’ We'retalking about the early 2000s here. I'd revel in going there from morning tillevening, diving into forums I followed, writing stories or novels, learning newtopics, conversing with friends across the globe. We'd delve into literature,poetry, arts, and cinema, sparingly touching upon politics. We believed theinternet, especially the "Riwayat Network" forum, granted Arab youtha platform to connect beyond the constraints set by governments, politics, andsocietal norms. I was convinced that the artificial political borders betweenArab countries would someday crumble, simply because they didn't represent anygenuine divides in culture, traditions, language, or beliefs. We felt akin to asingular entity. Despite the many conflicts and disagreements amongst forummembers, a strong foundation united us all.

 

Transition to a Globalized Era

Back then, I was brimming with naive optimism. I believedthe internet and various technological tools would usher in a new chapter forhumanity. They'd bridge distances, spread knowledge, and ignite millions ofminds. I thought these communication tools would bond hearts, transcendinggeographical and societal boundaries. I was convinced that we were on the brinkof an ideal global community. This was before we transitioned to the nextphase.

After the proliferation of various forums, these dispersedspaces were consumed by behemoths like Facebook and Twitter, along withremnants of other social media platforms. These conglomerates coalesced thescattered members of diverse forums, pushing a peculiar trend towards globalizingindividuals under a virtual reality dominated by a select few, imposing theirunique set of rules coercively upon all their members.

This was a natural extension of the world's globalizationmovement under the control of economic conglomerates and multinationalcorporations. For a long while, I believed the internet could dismantle theseconglomerates, restoring the world's diversity and disparities. But there wasan unsettling feeling I sensed from everyone rushing to Facebook and Twitter atthat time. It manifested in their words, actions, and the phrases they used,sending me signals of degradation and an urge to chase the fast-paced world.

 

Yearning for a Bygone Era

After a year or so, the forums I followed became barren,resembling a desert at midday. Reluctantly, and quite late, I migrated toFacebook. Initially puzzled, I kept searching for the group or place I'd heardhad relocated to this Facebook oasis, but never found it. I wandered aimlessly,engaging in topics I found intriguing. However, a hostile spirit prevailed,peppered with mockery for those who couldn't adapt quickly. A rampant urgeemerged to chase everything new, every update, every unique group, beforeanyone else could discover them. An insatiable desire to gain likes and commentsproliferated. There was a narcissistic obsession without any limits orboundaries.

Gradually, the idea of combating different conglomeratesfaded, and the sense of Arab unity that had overshadowed us for many yearsunder shared hobbies, ideas, and convictions vanished. Minor differences weremagnified, and people's personalities began to mold under their influence. Theconcept of an Arab society surpassing politics and the absurdity ofnation-states disappeared. Hard truths slowly unveiled, imposing themselvesupon all dreams and hopes.

History and individuals repeated themselves withoutpondering the new opportunity presented to them and its potential for genuinechange in humanity's trajectory. The internet offered everyone a chance toregroup through a different medium, free from the traditional constraints theyresisted and suffered from. But they simply reshaped the same old nonsense inthis new magical medium.

 

Twisted Crossroads

I didn't realize the depth of my shock until years later.But at that time, I just grew to despise the internet, longing for the world offorums amidst accusations of nostalgia and an inability to keep up withevolving trends. I didn't understand then that these so-called advancementswere regressions from the civilizational path, not progress chasing the leadingpack.

In that time, I tried a different approach. The internetbecame a long street for me, knocking on doors, seeking genuine friendships orshared interests. Yet, it grew complex, especially when trust in the person onthe other end dwindled, and they cared more about accumulating likes andcomments than genuine connection. I found myself retreating, observing fromafar with little interaction.

Then came the deafening amplifier of it all: the trend. Thisobsession I sensed early on, this chase for progress or globalization orwhatever you'd call it, crystallized in the concept of 'the trend' - whateveryone's talking about. Tricks, deceptions, and even scams emerged in itswake.

 

In the Shadows of the Malevolent

Various cybercrimes spread, both psychological andfinancial, the dark web emerged. The internet began extracting humanity's worstfacets. It was as if all that society had suppressed, the public sphere, thetraditions and customs, found an explosive outlet online.

Yes, this tech spread knowledge and enhanced communication,but it also fed our selfishness, our lies, our greed. Technological advancementraced ahead, but our moral compass remained stagnant.

I realized, all too late, that technological progressdoesn't necessarily mean civilizational evolution. It might even signify thedecline of civilization, the regression of humanity within the species,bringing forth the ugliest parts of the human psyche. The signs were alwaysthere, I just didn't see them. I lived through wars on Iraq, Afghanistan, andremembered Vietnam. All wars led by the technologically advanced against those weaker,fighting guerrilla warfare amongst their own people. All these wars wouldn'thave occurred without technological progress paired with a lagging civilizationthat boasts such technology.

Recall how humanity dropped the first atomic bombs on fellowhumans just to test its effects. All these wars, the strong against the weaker,culminating in the atrocities against unarmed Palestinians in Gaza andPalestine.

 

Lost in Progress

Technology doesn't lead to enlightenment; it may, in fact,do the opposite. This lie was forged in the dreamy phase of the early 20thcentury before the world confronted the fate its own actions had designed.Technology is but an amplifier, echoing our deep-rooted values and intents. Iwas deceived into believing that scientific advancement meant moralprogression; that mastering our world would refine humanity's raw edges.

The notion of progress, so gloriously celebrated, is but amirage that hasn't truly led to any humane evolution. We often mistake the glowof screens for enlightenment, the hum of machines for wisdom. But what of theprogress of civilization? The advancement of the human spirit, the collective conscience,the shared values that bind us?

In my endless daydreams and tireless imaginations, Ienvision a world devoid of technology. A realm where the chirp of birdsreplaces notifications, where the setting sun is our clock, and whereconversations happen face-to-face, soul-to-soul. I ponder upon the possibility:could such a world be the ideal environment for the civilizational andintellectual evolution of mankind? Does the possession of technological toolsand tricks ultimately lead to the loss of our civilizational capacities, ourvery humanity? Does it blur the lines of moral and spiritual values?

 

A Quest for Genuine Connection

In this imagined world, perhaps we'd be closer to our trueselves, unburdened by the weight of relentless innovation. Without the constantbombardment of information, maybe we'd rediscover the art of contemplation, thejoy of simple pleasures, the beauty of silence.

The technology, while it connects us globally, oftendistances us from our inner selves, from our neighbors, from the very earththat cradles us. Could it be that in the absence of this digital deluge, we'dfind ourselves more attuned to our own humanity, our shared stories, ourcollective dreams?

In poetic simplicity, as the world races ahead, maybe it'sworth pausing, reflecting, and wondering: Do we lose a part of our soul withevery new invention? Do we trade away the essence of who we are for fleetingconveniences? A world less technological might just be a world more connected,more humane, more true to itself.

 

 

 

  "A Math Memoir- Series" 

Upon my transition to middle school, there wasn't a subject I despised more than math. Back in elementary school, our syllabus covered basic operations like addition, subtraction, multiplication, long division, graph plotting, and areas of shapes, especially circles. These topics weren't particularly challenging for me, but oh boy, did I loathe them!

A Time of Numbers and Dread

In middle school, our curriculum took a sudden leap into set theory and number theory. These subjects were alien to me, turning my math world into a bleak landscape. Math class for me was a time for daydreaming and wallowing in gloom. Our math teacher was a reserved man in his thirties, always attempting to sprinkle some humor into his lessons. He would passionately explain topics and solve problems on the chalkboard right until the class bell rang. But did I pay attention? Not once!

One day, I was jolted from my reverie by a direct question from him. Imagine the shock! There he was, expecting an answer. On my face, you could read the whole definition of cluelessness. He kindly repeated the explanation and question, waiting for my response. After class, in front of everyone, he mentioned that anyone needing extra help could join his private lessons. On returning home, I recounted this episode to my dad, who, well-aware of my math woes, promptly agreed and emphasized I get the important details: where, when, and how much.

A Math Rekindled

The charming thirty-something, Mr. Muneer, reiterated what he taught in school. However, in his private lessons, he gave individualized attention, solved myriad problems, provided us with exclusive booklets, and made sure we completed our homework. Through him, I found a new love: set theory. It felt like a mathematical game, and I cherished watching numbers intertwine and separate. The idea of the conjunction "and" signifying intersection (not a cheat sign from my elementary teacher) and the disjunction "or" indicating union were fascinating foundational mathematical concepts.

By the end of my first year in middle school, I had aced my math exams. Throughout my academic journey, even in university, I consistently topped math, while geography was my Achilles' heel, possibly because of my aversion to its teacher, reminiscent of my disdain for Mr. Ibrahim Amer.

A Ledger's Duty

Mr. Muneer wasn't an angel, but he was leagues better than the elementary school scam artist. He made me genuinely appreciate math. But, he was meticulous, almost to a fault. He maintained a special attendance register, diligently marking our presence or absence. He kept a strict count of the four sessions every month, ensuring no dues remained. If you hadn't paid for the month, not a single new lesson for you! If you missed a class, why should he bear the burden? After all, he had commitments to meet.

Coins and Commitments

By the end of my second year, Mr. Muneer had tied the knot and moved into his newly purchased apartment where, rumor had it, horses could trot freely. Our lessons shifted to his fancy new place in an upscale neighborhood, a change from the old apartment we were accustomed to. And before we could dive into math, he'd whip out his ledger, ensuring if it was time for our monthly dues or if we still had a lesson left.

 "A Math Memoir- Series" 

At elementary school, the math teacher was a dignified, good-looking man in his fifties. He wore sunglasses and dressed neatly, but he was a swindler.

PhD in Trickery Engineering

His facial expressions were always so serious, as if he was on a top-secret mission that no one else could possibly handle. He used to convince us to attend his private lessons because he (arrogantly says) not only knows the exam but also participates in its preparation.

“Because I want you to get the best grades”, he says seriously and respectfully as if he is talking to his peers, “I will pass the questions to you, and help you to answer it”. 

The exam - back in our days, around the mid-nineties, was set at the level of the governorate, and the venerable swindler was hinting that he was among the best mathematics teachers in the governorate. 

Because of my hatred of mathematics, back at these days, and my very bad grades, I was constantly attending his private lessons, trying to get out of my miserable attempts to get better grades.

The Magic Mark

In the final year exam, he told us, during school time, that whoever attends his private lesson that day, will be able to know a secret that guarantees success. The secret was a little mark we must put on the exam’s answer sheet, so that he, and his tribe, surely sees it, and verily we will get a better grade. “Al-A'raf (7:27)”

Later after-noon that day, I was among those who believingly listen to him, he told us that the mark is the letter “و” in Arabic, that we must put it exactly where the “x” and “y” axis meets, in our answer to the graph question. “No doubt, the graph question will be the last question in the exam,” he said waving his hand sharply in an emphatic sign “there is no talk after that”. And we left happily that day, but the next day, the exam had no graph question.

The rank Of life and Coins

Mr. Ibrahim Amer, and this is his name, used to divide the students who attended his private lessons into two different groups, each group had its own pricing. There is the “distinguished group” (ten pounds per month or week, I don’t really remember) and there is the “regular group” for sons and daughters of the poor, with only five pounds. I was attending the regular group; the five-pound, and I remember that one day I had a math question that I could not solve. After the private lesson ended, I went to him “Sir, would you please help me solving this question, I have tried many times, but I don’t understand”, I asked him. He looked at the question “No, my dear, this question belongs to the distinguished group, join them and pay the difference, and only then I will be able to help you.”, he replied approaching me with smile as he was giving me a favor.

I still remember my conflicted feelings at that moment, I was confused between his attempt to get closer and gently to me, so I join the other group, because it is the only right thing to do in the world, and the feeling of his rejection because I do not deserve his support yet. I felt the necessity of doing one specific thing, which was to pay him money, so that he would accept me among his favorite students.

Of course, during school class he would solve only one question on the board in a quick manner, and then he spends the rest of the class joking with his favorite students or talking with his fellow teachers.

Like any swindler, he was soft-spoken, had a privileged place among teachers, and had his followers. And his closest follower, of course, was Mr. Ahmed Bayoumi, who, although, used to follow his approach with a ruler, but he did not announce a distinct study group. We, his private students, were attending his private lessons in a dreary classroom in an old semi-deserted school, and Mr. Bayoumi would gather us in one class, just as vegetables are gathered in a huge burlap bag, to give us the lesson at once and for all, instead of dividing us into smaller groups. In this way, he finishes his schedule quickly.

The strange thing I remember, is that almost all the students in the school class, at the normal school, would move to the far deserted school, to sit in an almost dark class, in front of the same teacher, to get the same knowledge they supposed to have a few hours ago, in the normal class, at a better school condition.

 

 “About letting go, whichI thought meant maturity.”

 

#Let_it_GO_!

It was during one of my movie nights with mykids. A captivating song transported me to a version ofmyself from years ago—a person I now barely recognize. A wave of melancholysweeps over me as I yearn to reach out to that younger self, but he remainsjust out of grasp.

In the intricate tapestry of life, certain decisions, oftenmade in the heat of the moment or the depths of despair, leave an indeliblemark on our souls. One of the most profound choices I ever grappled with,almost subconsciously, was relinquishing my belief in love. This wasn’t merelyabout distancing myself from romantic entanglements, but a deep-rootedabandonment of an idea that had, for the longest time, been the cornerstone ofmy existence.

 

Goodbye to Love

Love, in its many forms, shapes us. It provides hope inbleak times, offers solace during despair, and paints our world in vibranthues. But when that very belief is cast aside, the world doesn’t just lose itscolor—it becomes unrecognizable. My decision to forsake love was akin toremoving the compass that had guided me through life's labyrinth.

Without this anchoring belief, I found myself adrift. Itwasn't just about the absence of romantic partnerships or the lack of warmth incasual interactions. The very essence of who I was began to fade. The joys andsorrows, the passions and indifference, the dreams, and nightmares—all seemedto blend into a monochromatic existence. Without love as my guiding light,every experience felt dulled, every emotion muted.

 

An Expected Odyssey

Growing up, especially within the confines of a middle orslightly lower-middle-class upbringing, there's a latent expectation. Itwhispered promises that once the educational journey, especially the pivotaluniversity chapter, was completed, life would unfurl in all its grandeur.Awaiting me was a world ready to embrace my potential, a stage set for my grandentrance. These promises painted vivid dreams of love and life, shaping myyouthful hopes.

I belong to a generation that was used to hearing phraseslike: 'Tomorrow you'll be in college and conquer the world,' 'Just do whateveryou want after college,' or 'After college, you can love however you want.'

 

Twilight of Tradition

Back in the eighties and nineties, the shrinking middleclass found the costs of education, private lessons, and necessities, coupledwith the responsibilities of childrearing and discipline, increasinglydifficult. Regarding repeating this for two children, my parents preferred tofollow up on the less skilled child and leave the more skilled and intelligentchild to the wind and the vicissitudes of life alone. The truth that Iunderstood later was that their interventions were only to make things worse.

The ideas of positive parenting were not yet in vogue, andit did not mean anything to parents at that time to teach their children morethan the concepts of right and wrong, and the concepts of halal and haram. Thenfollow-up with a whip for those who spoil their mood. And children’s feelingswere not something that my father could pay attention to at all, but he alwaysmocked it.

Life in adolescence, for me as a teenager who suffered inthese circumstances, was like hell. I was waiting for the days to pass until Iwas no longer “a minor”, the painful word that was thrown in my face every nowand then. I was looking for a way out of this house with all its surroundingbehaviors that I reject and sometimes hate.

 

 Echoes from a Bygone Era

Throughout my social development, a notion quietlyinfiltrated my subcon- indirectly mostly - that real life would be in theuniversity stage, and after that …? After that, I had no idea what could happen.I had no idea how life could be after that, and what I would like to do afterthat.

University life was a golden fantasy in my imagination andin my mind, for then, I would have grown up enough, but I would also still beyoung living under the care of my parents. And I could remind them that I amabout to become independent, so that the pressure of belittling me and myfeelings would lessen.

After the university period ended, life as it was in myimagination ended with it. During college, I began writing poetry, embracinglove and the idea of living. I was enchanted by the notion of two people, a boy,and a girl, from different backgrounds yet sharing the same dreams and lifevision, agree on a goal, and their fingers intertwine as they go on their way togetherto repair what was wrong in their lives, vowing not to repeat the follies ofadults.

I fell in love with love itself, that miracle that unitesthe disparate and the scattered ones, that brings hearts closer to each other,that heals wounded souls, and fills the eyes of dreamers with hope.

All these thoughts converged on my perception of women. Iimagined the feminine as a mythical being capable of performing miracles. Iconfess that this view lingered with me for a long time, and perhaps I still harborremnants of it today as I envision women as the true heart and soul of anysociety, capable of molding it according to their inherent spirit and moralvalues. I could never have imagined them engaging in the capitalist strugglewith men, vying for a place in a world that's as grimy and decayed as pigswallowing in the muck, merely to satisfy their hunger.

 

Capitalist Chains

Perhaps that’s why I was shocked when I discovered thatwomen want to be seen merely as men with a different physical form. I learnedthat they simply want to step into the labor market and work in the mill likemen, all while failing to recognize the uniqueness of their nature and thenobility of their spirit, which was meant to rise, move, and lead everything.

I know that this is a result of capitalism, the absence oflove in society, the need to secure the future, the loss of trust in others,the urge to prove oneself, and all the other rubbish that surrounds me fromevery angle.

Ironically, it was men who gave birth to Capitalism.  the big imaginative perception that framedexistence, historical progression, and the dialectics of its movement with theirmaterialist perspective. They positioned materials as the sole determinant ofall else. Perhaps they were men who couldn't perceive the true essence of loveand comradeship. They failed to comprehend the paradoxical thinking that womenmaster, and transformed history into a linear, intricate, and winding path thatultimately transformed people to mere shadows of forlorn perceptions.

 

A World Where Love Was Whispered

I, too, grew up in an environment where love was rarelyacknowledged, even ridiculed if someone mistakenly expressed their feelings.Maybe the generation that raised us was ashamed to express love or unable tolove. It seems like it was a generation incapable of seeing anything beyondthemselves. My mother constantly searched through my belongings, afraid I wouldget involved in typical teenage activities, like smoking cigarettes or hashish,drinking with the wrong crowd. But the first time she discovered a paper onwhich I had written some poems. Her face brightened and she looked at me inastonishment as she realized what kind of teenager I was. She kept making surethat these words were not written for a specific girl, then when she understoodthat I wrote them for an imaginary girl I dreamed of meeting, signs of regretappeared on her features, then mixed with looks of pity for years after. Myfather hit me on the head and said: “What is this nonsense.” Then he continued:“Go study something that will benefit you.”

 

From Ivory Towers to Trenches

When I graduated from college, I received the biggest blowin my life path, and the ugliest period I have ever been through, as I enteredthe army for three years.

The worst part of that period was not the physical effort,although I did come out with a high level of fitness. It was dealing daily withsmall-minded people focused on exploiting influence and power, with a racistview of everything and everyone. As an officer, I had to interact with otherofficers and senior leaders. I was not just a soldier living with his fellowrecruits and kept away from the ugly truth.

A Soldier’s Transformation

For a civilian young man who suddenly carries a militaryrank on his shoulders and is thrown among officers who have lived the militarylife since their youth until they became old men, it was like going from hometo hell, as the saying goes.

Imagine a world where military ranks have turned into ranksin humanity, and not just a hierarchy of military skills and capabilities, butalso a hierarchy of your rights as a human being. This is the worst form ofexploitation of power and racism. You suffer from the condescending view ofthose with higher ranks, so you repeat the same thing and psychologically passit on to everyone who is below your rank, participating in their practices.Then you suffer from guilt and a feeling of inner dirtiness, and yourconscience kills you.

 

Shackled Hierarchy

 When I left the army,I carried its weight deep within me. In the following years, I discovered thatthe behaviors I encountered in the army were not exclusive to that place butwere repeated – albeit to varying degrees – in the souls of all those I met. Iworked in different places, in government sectors, in private sectors, in civilsociety, in activities and NGOs. The only difference was that some pretendedthat these ideas and behaviors did not exist. Then you lift the veil of one ofthem to find it lurking deep within.

 

Life Beyond the Ranks

The shocks came to me individually and in groups, and Isuffered from the disgusting feeling of loneliness. I am alone with mythoughts, nothing resembles me, and nothing pleases me (as Mahmoud Darwishsays).

I was living in the kingdom of solitude by myself, as thesong says:

 

'A kingdom of isolation

And it looks like I'm the [king]

The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside

Couldn't keep it in, heaven knows I tried'

 

Gradually, I found myself unable to write poetry. I long forthe days when I was able to imagine and write, I try to write about love, but Ionly write about hatred, violence, and shocks. I am unable to get out of themire and unable to see it from outside.

 

Between Passion and Pragmatism

At that time, I decided to give up on the idea of love. In amoment of despair and anger, it seemed to me like a childish idea incapable ofdoing anything, just the fantasies of a teenager looking for a way out, lookingromantically -to the point of bitterness - at things. So, I decided to give upon love.

At first, it was comfortable. You are worthless and I am asworthless as you, you are materialists, and I am like you, materialistic. Lifeis just matter, as your god Marx and his followers of fools said. But the deepsadness was accumulating inside me, and I suppressed it. Many years passed,during which I gathered their cherished material possessions. But I foundmyself throwing them to the wind, for I never had any respect for money, andperhaps I spent nights, months, and years thinking about an economy that couldfunction without money, before I learned about the non-monetary economy, whichis quite different from what I imagined.

 

Revelations by the Bedside

I would take out my old papers and poems and feel nostalgicfor them, but I also felt free from them. Free from that period during which Isuffered so much. But I discovered that I had become another person. Someonetrying to find his way back to his old self, wondering in amazement how allthose years had passed so quickly.

Yes, I regret giving up on the idea of love because itshaped my understanding of myself for many years, but I remember my father'sknocks on my head whenever my mother found a scrap of paper here or there onwhich I had scribbled some part of myself.

 Now, aquarter-century after those incidents, I sit by my father's bed - he is nowover eighty - and we talk. He tells me about his adolescence and youth, how heused to go to the movies and then come back and write his thoughts and feelingsabout the film in his notebook, how he used to sit and draw the girls incollege, and how he spent decades of his life immersed in love, sacrificing alot for those he loved, for his sister, and for his large family, without anyreward. In fact, he may have suffered greatly because of it and lost a lot. Hesadly discovered the futility of these ideas and behaviors. And I wasastonished to discover that.

 

Echoes Across Time

He doesn't remember blaming me for repeating what he haddone. But I understood that he hated me repeating his mistakes. He hated for meto drown in a non-existent romantic world. And he wanted me to know the realworld as it is, with all its filth and crap.

Despite my understanding and appreciation of his choices, Icannot find justification for what he did to me. I may feel sorry and sad forhis experience and for what life compelled him to do, but I do not find itjustifiable for him to turn against me, to punish me for what he had done, orto vent his anger at life on a young teenager who knew nothing about life.

I asked him, "Why didn't you tell me what you werethinking? Why were you harsh on me? Why didn't you tell me that you wanted meto be strong?" He sarcastically replied, "Would you haveunderstood?"

Now I try to reconnect with a person I lost almost twodecades ago. I try to understand, from my perspective, his motives, andthoughts. I try to rise above them, and I wonder: Was there wisdom in myfather's treatment of me? Or did he push me into another tragedy opposite hisown?

I look now at my son. I shower him with my love, and I talkto him like a grown man even though he hasn't reached ten yet. And I wonder,what tragedy am I leading you to, and how will you blame me in the future?

 'About the echo of love, that became an echo of the past.'

#If_You_Go_Away

Voyaging, departing, probing the realm of possibilities - thesenotions shaped my teen years. I was eternally curious, a youngexplorer constantly peering beyond the horizons of the known, yet to grasp theprecious worth of the present and the power of potential lying dormant withinme.

The Power of The Present

I was in constant search of what lies beyond the world, of what lurksbehind the veil of the future. A teenager yet to learn the value of cherishingthe present moment, of trusting in his own potential.

Many of those desires have since been fulfilled. Yet, now, I would gladlytrade all my gains to return to that distant moment. But what once seemedpossible, has become an impossibility. You were swept away by the current, myfriend, and you sat looking back, lamenting over missed opportunities.

During a transcontinental visit, I found myself at my favorite place -"Raml Station".

The weather was autumnal, but the crowd was suffocating. I sat at a caféby the sea, observing the streets and the passers-by.

Memories started flooding my mind, piercing through my heart like adagger. On a day like this, under a similar autumnal sky, I left an accountinglecture, escaping into the depths of the streets in search of freedom, offantasy.

The streets were nearly empty of pedestrians, and the weather wasdrenched in autumn. The clouds were heavy, pregnant with rain that was yet tofall, I was a teenager then, not yet seventeen, riding an almost empty tramfrom El-Shatby to Raml Station. I stroll down the long road descending towardsFouad Street, where the cinema awaited me, and imagination was within my grasp.

The Power of Music

Before the show began, they used to play various songs, and among those,Shirley Bassey's "If You Go Away" left an indelible impression on mymind.

Her velvety, wide-ranging voice seeped into my consciousness and soul,like a drug transporting me to a future where everything was possible, andwhere this bleak reality had no existence. A painful melody scattered in therealm of my senses, a voice more beautiful than the music that softly fadedbeside it, taking flight, clinging to the last threads of love.

Her lament was not a promise or a plea. I did not feel she was promisinghim a better world if he stayed, nor begging him to stay so she wouldn't fallapart. What I truly felt was an attempt at failed rebellion, not a rebellionagainst a lover, or against the world, but a rebellion against love itself.

She mourns the early moments of love:

When our love was new, and our hearts were high,

When the day was young, and the night was long.

And the moon stood still for the night bird's song.

But this has changed. She does not know why it changed. No one knows whyit changes. But it always changes. These moments that flash through the courseof our lives; they continue to captivate us for the remainder of our days. Andshe is powerless to rebel against them. She contemplates the possibility ofreproducing these moments and sailing in the sun's rays, drifting in the wind'scourse:

We'll sail on the sun; we'll ride on the rain.

We'll talk to the trees and wander the wind.

But this is no longer possible. Even if she tried to forcefully bend theworld to fulfill her desires, she would not succeed, for a simple reason, thather lover himself has changed:

There'll be nothing left in the world to trust.

 Just an empty room full of empty space

 Like the empty look I see on your face

And love requires two parties to be involved. As for the love thatconsumes only one party, it is either a trap, or a philosophical position thatreshapes the world from the perspective of pain.

The Paradox of Love and Loss

The song transformed in the depths of my soul and memory into a question.A question about the essence of this wonderful thing we call love.

This thing capable of transcending our differences and cultures andunifying our feelings and goals, as infinite as the universe and as narrow as aneedle's eye, a phenomenon capable of bringing out the best in us, and capableof destroying everything.

I do not claim to have known the answer. But perhaps I have come to befilled with more questions.

Perhaps I no longer think that love is a shining moment in the horizon ofthe past. But I have come to tend to think that it is a bond, a journey, adialogue between two parties.

For this reason, it has multiple social and psychological dimensions.Perhaps it is a journey through the currents of barriers and time, aiming toform a bond and maintain it. But the creation of the bond aims at itssustainability and maintenance. Because its loss is devastating. But the bondand dialogue do not necessarily have to be between two parties only, it could bebetween several parties, between a party and a meaning, between a party and avalue or a goal or any other thing.

So, if love is a feeling seeking to gain communication with something,and the feeling is just a mental or emotional state that can change, why doesit change at one party and does not change at the other party?

Does this feeling permeate the individual's existence and embed itself inhis entity and reshape it at one of the parties, while it does not do the sameat the other party?

What is the reason then?

If love is a mental state in which communication occurs between twoparties. Is the goal of love communication?

And if its goal is communication, why does the loss happen?

And why do we strive to lose what we communicated with?

Between love and loss, my thoughts revolved as I sat in the dimly litcinema hall listening to the song and waiting to drown in the beautiful dreamworld on the screen.

The song captured the essence of love, and revealed its terrifyingbeauty, and did not present loss as a possible probability, but presented it asthe inevitable result of love.

The song did not provide a fiery emotion that suited my teenage feelingsat that distant moment, but it took me with it to moments of quiet despair, andto the deep realization that love, as it is eternal, is also transient andtemporary.

But it did not give me an explanation. I have not found the answer yet.

Somehow my belief began to lean towards the belief that it all has to dowith our relationship with the past, with our relationship with ourselves, withthe people we were in the past, and our desire to keep them. In our attempt todiscover ourselves, and our hatred for what time makes us.

Fear of LossPerhaps the whole matter lies in the fear of loss, the loss of theopportunity that was in our hands, the loss of the feeling that we once lived,the loss of the current moment and the shift from it to something different.

When I ponder deeply, I discover that giving up love itself, and leavingthis feeling, as a stance from life, behind us, and drawing inspiration fromShirley Bassey's quiet acceptance of reality and clinging to this inspiringmoment of feeling satisfied from our current moment, can achieve what we dreamof in communication with ourselves, as a fundamental moment and as a basis forcommunication with anything else.

Or perhaps I am trying to convince myself of this position, as I sitalmost a quarter of a century later in the same space on the planet Earth,contemplating the being I was in a past day.

 

'About the fabrication of art, that surpassed art'

(#Ana_Mesh_Aarefni), “#I’m_not_knowing_myself”…

I came back that night stuffed with dark thoughts, and whenever thoughts stuffed me, my stomach screamed demanding to be treated likewise. 

I  opened the fridge and looked for something end my gloom. My eyes glimpsed a herring hiding behind the green onions and two tomatoes, so I stretched out trembling fingers from excitement. 

I pulled out the small treasure and stood looking at it greedily. This is a small feast that suits my mood perfectly. And to adjust the “mood” even more, I took out my phone and turned-on YouTube Music, trusting its algorithm’s choices that always suit me. 

I started frying the herring on the fire and its oil started dripping temptingly. The first song ended with the herring being done, I put it in the plate, then I found Al-Hakimdar “singer Abbasat” shouting: (Ana) ;“I am”.

I paid attention and smiled silently, if YouTube’s algorithm was living with me in that moment, it wouldn’t have chosen a better song for me. Abbasat continued: (Ana, ana, ana, aaaana, ana): “I am, I am, I am, IIII am, I am.”

I chopped the onion, and tears started falling from my eyes, and the singer shouted, ( Ta’abt men el mofaja’a wa nazalt dam3ti); “I’m tired of the surprise and my tear fell”, and for some reason I found myself laughing sarcastically. 

This song stirs up contradictory feelings in me since the first time I heard it until now. The song in its words and in its appearance seems very contrived, maybe even superficial. It contradicts everything we know about singing of the “man” in general. There is no man who sings to his “mirror”, we are not used to a man singing saying: (“Qouli eih ya mirayti, qouli eih hikayti” ); “Tell me, oh my mirror, tell me what is my story.” We are used to the image of the woman who sings to her mirror, and the image is associated in our minds with “Snow White” and the evil queen who holds a genie in her mirror who confirms to her that she is the most beautiful woman in the world, every time age stabs her more, and she loses confidence in herself. 

But for a man to sing to his mirror, this is something we have never heard before. Maybe we think that the word: (mirayti); “my mirror” came to adjust the rhyme with: (hikayti, wa nihayti) “my story, and my end” in the rest of the verse. Add to this: who is this “man” who confesses with utmost simplicity that his tears fall, like women do? All this might provoke sarcasm in us and make us look at the song superficially and belittle it. 

The strange thing is that this was my feeling at first when I listened to it for the first time. He was saying (ana mesh 3arefni, ana taht menni, ana mesh ana) “I don’t know myself, I’m lost, I’m not myself anymore.” 

This is an existential issue steeped in philosophy. How can it be sung in this popular and colloquial way? How can it be sung so abruptly? 

Perhaps we only know one similar song: (Je’to laa a’arifu min ayna!); “I don’t know where I came from!” by Abdel Halim Hafez, taken from the poem “Al-Talasim” by the heavy and deep Arab poet Eliya Abu Madi, composed by the heavy-duty musician Abdul Wahab, and placed in a dramatic context for the film (Al-Khata’ya); “The Sins” and the song does not speak frankly about the identity crisis, but rather about the ordinary questions of origin and destiny: Where did we come from and where are we going? So, who is this popular singer who takes these huge meanings and puts them in a popular song saying: (La di malamihy, wala shakly shakly, wala da ana); “This is not my features. This is not my shape. This is not me.”? What is this nonsense? Perhaps that’s why I felt the song was being underestimated for the first time, however, in somehow, I was taken by the performance of Al-Hakimdar.

Despite my apparent contempt for the song, I felt that it moved something deep inside me and that the song somehow expressed me.

I ignored it at first, but every time I hear it, I feel the same contradictory feelings. I feel sarcastic about the song and sing along with Al-Hakimdar mockingly while I laugh disdainfully, but inside, and without really admitting this to myself, I feel his tearing, his burning, his sincerity as he screams (Ana mesh aarafni); “I am not recognizing myself” and despite my sarcasm, I feel that I too am not recognizing me. 

I sat down to the plate of herring drowned in tahini and oil and started to wonder why! Why am I feeling this way? 

Maybe Al-Hakimdar wasn’t really an artist. Maybe he had the feeling of an artist, maybe he had the desire to be an artist, maybe he had the voice of an artist. But neither the feeling, nor the desire nor the voice is what makes an artist. 

They taught us for a long time that art requires a magical formula named a “TALANT” that no one understands its essence. It is added to magical spices that give it an irresistible flavor, its name is study, then the mixture is put in a baking dish that is baked on a low heat called experience. Only then can you call yourself this name that makes your skin crawl “artist”, and you can call any “crap” you produce “art”. 

The Hakimdar was not an artist in this sense. In the movie: (Enta elly hatghanni ya Monem); “You’re the one who’s going to sing, Monem!” the poor young man with the beautiful voice comes and his neighborhood’s people sells everything they’ve got to support him in studying MUSIC at the conservatory, for him to learn and becomes a real artist. Before that he can’t be an artist. 

Abbast didn’t study at the conservatory, maybe he never heard of it in his life. I remember that I first knew him through the program (Hewar Sareeh Gedan) when Mona El-Husseini hosted him and mocked him and asked him: “Do you have handsomeness as Abdel Halim?” He answered her: “Yes of course, I have it, and the audience shall judge that”. Abbast didn’t know the meaning of the word “handsomeness” and maybe he thought it was a quality in the voice, or a way of performance, and that’s why he confirmed that, “Abdel Halim frankly is a man of art”. 

Abbast didn’t understand that “handsomeness” doesn’t mean hair combed with oil, excessive obesity, giant belly, and that the rules of a romantic singer are to be handsome, thin and delicate with dreamy eyes so that he “appeals” to girls who swoon over his image. Abbast didn’t understand the relationship between appearance or body shape and art, and that’s why he answered with “gimmick” that “the audience judges.”

Al-Hakimdar was really feeling confident, fully convinced of what he offers, drawing his conviction and success from his popular circle that likes what he offers and asks for it in their celebrations and listened to his songs, despite the fact that he did not graduate from the conservatory, nor did he know how to write music, nor did he know anything about music theory, nor art history, he impressed wide segments of people. Segments that think they have the right to question their identity and existence without knowing Heidegger or Russell. Abbaset believed that he is an artist, he was convinced he is an artist, he fabricated art… literally, but without knowing that he is doing so. 

Maybe this is what made me laugh the first time I heard that song. It is a blatant fabrication of this attitude towards life. Especially the part where he hums his voice and says “Mmmmmmm”. If a comedian had performed this song in the same way, people would have fallen on their backs laughing, but Abbasat was not a comedian, and he did not sing this song intending comedy, but he was convinced of what he said, he thought that he had the right to express his inner feelings and emotions in this way without knowing that there are “other people” who monopolize this issue, of questioning existence, for themselves, considering it only a matter for philosophers to discuss. 

Abbasat was honest in his emotion only, that was all he had, and somehow, magically, this feeling was conveyed to us. We realized that it was not a joke, and that it was not a monopoly for some people, and that he did not claim fabrication in these words, nor in this feeling that he felt, nor in this attitude towards life that he felt; we dropped the barriers in ourselves… then we discovered in our depths that we just don’t want to feel it. That we want to hide from this feeling; that we don’t know ourselves, behind mocking this feeling, to pretend falsely that we know ourselves, even though in reality we do not know ourselves. We do not know that we have learned not to admit our tears, and to leave the mirror as a monopoly for women to talk to themselves in it, and to leave existential questions for philosophers only, so they can determine our answers for us.

Therefore, Abbasat's impact on us is astounding. It leaves us conflicted, questioning our very existence. Do we truly understand ourselves and our true essence, or are we merely pretending to be sensitive, pondering over our romanticism? Are we adopting a conscious and philosophical stance, claiming a loss of consciousness, trying to appear more profound than we truly are? Or are we, in fact, lost in the complexities of life, unaware of our own identity, hiding behind the pretense of fabrication?

I paused and gazed at the gleaming stove cover as I lifted it to brew a cup of tea, lost in my thoughts and contemplating.

Al-Hakimdar compels us to face ourselves, confronting the mirrors within our souls. He poses a profound question: Do we truly recognize the individuals who confront us on the other side of our reflection, or are we faced with unfamiliar faces?