الكتابة والقاتل

وعدتُني بأن أكتُب. وعدتُني بكلمات كتبتها ولم أكن أعلم أن وعدي لنفسي "حُجة" مؤلمة أراها أمامي كل يومٍ وأفكر فيها بدون توقف. لم أُفكر في أوراقي ولا في أقلامي بل فكرت في مُدونتي الوحيدة شديدة الوحدة منذ انعزالي من ثلاثة أشهر ومنذ قراري بأن أترك الكتابة فترة حتى أستطيع أن أُقرر ماهية كتاباتي وما يجب أن أُعود نفسي الفقيرة عليه بعد أن أصبحت من أكثر من يعجزون عن التعبير بالكلام وبعد أن اكتشفت أنّي أقف أمام العديد من الناس محاوِلة وجاهدة لأقول ما بداخلي ولكن أُدرك حينها أن الكلام ليس لأمثالي.. أمثالي يكتبون لا يتكلمون.

هل هذا مرض؟ أم هي الكتابة؟ وهل الكتابة "مرض" أصلًا؟ لو الإجابة هي لا، إذن فلِمَ انتحر كثيرٌ من الكُتاب أو دخلوا في مراحل اكتئاب مزمن آلت إلى تعبيرهم بأشد الروايات والكتب حُزنًا ووجعًا. ما هي الكتابة؟ تعبير عن النفس؟ وماذا تصبح بعد أن تتحول إلى عادة؟ أتصبح "موهبة"؟ موهبة جاءت نتيجة أوجاع وآلام؟ آه...مُحيرة.

أقررت أن أكتب بالعربية فقط؟ لا أدري. أقررت أن أعتزل الإنجليزية بسبب حُبي المُفرط للعربية مؤخرًا ولكي أُنميها في عقلي بأكبر قدر وأنتفع وأنفع الناس بها بأي شكلٍ من الأشكال؟ والله لست أدري، ولكن كل الذي أُحسه هو ألم رهيــب ووجع لا يُحتمل وكأن بداخلي قنابل موقوتة تنفجر كلما عجزت عن اتخاذ قرار حول هذه المسألة، وكأن عجزي يتبدّل ويتحول إلى أسلحة ضدي تُدمرني تدميراً لا هوادة فيه. هي مُهددي وسارقي ومغتصب نفسي منّي. ولكنها لا تزال شيئًا مدهشًا يبعث إليّ سحرًا مع العودة إليه، كالمدمن الذي يُدمر نفسه ويستمتع بها في نفس الوقت..ماسوشية؟ ولمَ لا؟

أُريد أن أصبح كغسان كنفاني. من يعرفني جيدًا يعلم يقينًا أني لديّ جنون بشخص الكاتب الفلسطيني الذي اغتالته الموساد، غسان كنفاني. غسان هو رمز النضال الأمثل بالنسبة لي، وهو فاق بكثير إرنيستو جيفارا الذي كان رمزًا للنضال في قلبي في يوم من الأيام، حتى قدّمت لي الأيام غسان كنفاني في أول رواية صغيرة قرأتها له وهي "عائد إلى حيفا" وبدأت عقبها اقرأ "رجال في الشمس" ثم "أرض البرتقال الحزين" ثم وأخيرًا "موت سرير رقم 12"، تلك الأخيرة التي لن أنساها طالما حييت. كيف يستطيع كاتب روايات قصيرة وقصص لا تتعدى الصفحات العشر أن يكتب كلمات بهذا العُمق دون حاجة إلى الإطالة لإيضاح فكرته أو تعميق أوجاعه على بلده؟ كيف استطاع أن يتركنا في هذه الصدمة مع كل قصة قصّها ومع كل جملة أراد بها إيضاح أفكار ليس لها حصر؟ كيف وكيف؟ وكيف قتلوه ولم يبق منه أشلاء واحتفلوا باغتياله على طاولاتهم السياسية القذرة؟ آهٍ يا غسان يا قاتل! قتلوك جسديًا فقتلتنا نفسيًا قبل أن تُكمل عامك الأربعين.

وكيف، اشرح لي، جئت بهذه الكلمات التي أبكتني على عروبتي وعلى فلسطيني وجعلتني في كل مرة أقف عن الكتابة والقراءة لأتعافى من صدمة كلماتك. أتساءل أحيانًا: وماذا كان سيحدث لو افترضنا أنهم لم يقتلوك؟ هل كنت ستدلُّني على محيط الكلمات الذي تأتي منه بها؟

يا قاتل! لأجلك وبسببك أريد أن أُكمل مسيرة ما، أريد أن أستكمل ما تركته: قتل الناس بالكلمات ليعجزوا عن الحديث المُترف الدنيء الذي لا ينتهي.. وينتصر سيف الكتابة على أعداء السياسة. نعم.

Write when you least feel like it,

Because that's when you write best.

I write words down on paper to kill them, or so that someone else would be brave enough to save them. You can say I'm a words killer - and sometimes a poet.

There are two things in this life that if you practice, you have to be extremely cautious while using them: Speaking and Writing.
I, as a writer, seriously thought of killing my ability to write, or perhaps just write every once in a while and avoid getting into deep, detailed or controversial articles. One of the very main drawbacks of being a writer and a thing that renders me sleepless several nights is the fact that words are as dangerous as silence, equally dangerous. They're a double-edged weapon, and if you're a writer, you have a knife or a rope right on your neck, and once you say something provoking, you unintentionally let that rope/knife slay you. Yes, responsibility that is.
The media; the tv and the internet. Those two have played an essential role in getting people so mystified that it now feels like the words people heard have cast their shadows upon their thoughts, their views and their minds until a heavy dense cloud befogged their existence, until everyone now wants to just, survive- not to mention that surviving has become a great achievement these days.
I don't think those who appear on tv realize how crucial and important their words are to the society, and like those who are and always will be silent, those who talk will always blabber, just for the sake of it. Both are diseases that have the same symptoms yet a different result.
Either way, what you write is spoken aloud, and what you speak is read in silence; it all leads to the same conclusion, but the question is, how much do you give and how much do you take? Because you can give one tiny thing yet it would provoke a whole nation, and give a thousand things that are usually wasted. Impulsiveness Vs bullshit.

Let's be honest here, people talk more than they do, so at least if you're talking and not doing, let others hear some sane words, and let yourself raise the doer, directly or indirectly, or just shut up and spare the world your never(s), spy talks and forever doomed(s).
Let the sheep decide and let the free be free, because after all you don't really care about the sheep nor the free, it's you who matters the most to yourself, and that's just how corrupted it is, always has been and always will be.

Sometimes you don't know whether silence would be more hurtful than words or the other way round. You just don't know if that silence would be decipherable or would it leave you mystified with too many thoughts soaring, sometimes none of them is even close to reality. You just think. And think.
Sometimes words are unnecessary yet you find yourself saying anyways, in fear of what? Nothing, probably being accused of apathy or indifference. Does it matter? deep down inside it really does, but on the surface you’re all confident nothing’s worth it. Don’t worry, we all have those insecurities and the need to be loved with our imperfections, no matter how perfect we try to act.

My current situation with life makes me too burdened or blown to speak, I can’t write (don’t mind the fact that I’m writing now), my poetic life has become this ridiculous way of expressing before all those huge events happening lately, you know? It’s like whatever you’ll write and whatever you’ll feel is just a tiny bit of dust and ash that the world doesn’t need. So you prefer silence. This time silence is heartfelt and true, however, until when are we going to keep out words because they would add nothing to the world while they could add something to an ordinary person that might run into our words.

Is there something more than words to this world? Oh yes, patience. I think patience with prayers is a great, holy escape that makes everyone feel relieved at heart. You know, the older we grow, the harder it gets with patience; it’s like a harder lesson everyday that you cannot seem to understand, yet life doesn’t wait for you to get it, it just passes you by, and you either hold on to your patience, or you’ll never, ever, get it. Only Allah does.

I have been reading so much recently, in bed or at my office at work, cross-legged and comfortable, with the most terrible psychological aches ever; the ability to read and feel yet the inability to really feel or get involved in something that would be of any use to the country. I do understand that we all feel this way, that’s exactly why I’m writing this, to let you know I feel for you and ask you to smile because I know you feel for me. It’s just that we need patience, whether with words or with silence. I know that we have a terrible attitude when it comes to waiting, but if only, if only we knew the reward of what’s happening. At least daydream and smile.

I’m not really trying to cheer you up because I can’t cheer up myself, I’m just expressing something we all are feeling at the same time – and it might not be the same for you as it is for me, but I want you to know that this will pass, it has to; nothing lasts like this forever, impossible. So no matter how old you are, how strong or weak you are, no matter your religion, your race or your stream of thoughts or your feelings, at one point, you feel me and I feel you. And this is a test for patience, a test for life.

Shine on so the sun can rise again underneath your feet.

So here I am again, with my in-depth confessions and my own killer: words.
We all get those feelings when we really really want to write/play music/draw/artivate yet it's either work that gets to us, or it's procrastination--and I say the latter wins the fight!
I have been so burdened with some thoughts, some really different and various thoughts that probably have nothing to do with one another.
First come dreams: dreams are a huge pill of insomnia for me, or in other words I'd say a big part of the burden I carry inside. My death dreams are visiting me on almost a weekly basis now, each time differently. Sometimes shot at heart, sometimes bleeding on bathroom floors, other times just me dying without actually knowing how. Now the question is, will writing really take it off my mind? I don't really think so; I'm really starting to doubt life and I've been experiencing twitches of my whole body on a mere thought of death. This is just so weird..
Please don't prejudge and say I'm a pessimist, death is not pessimism, it's reality!

Second come words: If you know me pretty well, you'd understand the effect of words in my life, and it's partly why I really wanna be a writer, a published writer to be quite frank. Words are underrated, and they're a world changer, either positively or negatively. And although my poetry and prose are not all positive, I still think inspirational sayings within my lines may change the way someone feels about writing or about life. If you carry some wisdom in your words, you're a world changer :)

Third come the thousands of topics I have in mind: I think about stereotypes, about the invisible world, about racism and sexism and extremism. I think about bombs and how the shock waves are what really causes the real damage in the world, not the bombs themselves. I think about the society and the ignorant thinking and all those theories of conspiracy and capitalism. I think about politics, how people are using the words "The revolution" only to say the world is coming to a stop and everything's been worsening more and more. I think about just too many things that I'm always left without talking about any single thing of them. And that's the worst of all.

Being a writer, I think I'm meant to suffer with the words I'll want to say, I think I'll die with so many words left unsaid, stories left untold and reflections buried with me. I'll just keep fighting to change the world somehow with the thoughts I can free out loud, until maybe, just maybe, one day I'll be able to make someone write, to make someone truly change the world if I never had the chance to, and then I'll stand before my Creator and truly feel like I've done something worth living for, and worth even more dying for.

May Allah guide us all to a peaceful, world-changing soul!

Dear all,

Don't freak out, I didn't delete my work, all my poems and prose pieces are drafted because the Publishing House needs exclusivity on the book so they have to be nowhere else other than the book insha'allah. I might re-publish them when the book is out, until then..

Stay tuned and pray for me =)

Thank you!