Looking For Gold | Time in your life Drill

هاتف

المشهد الأول:

لطالما راودها ذلك الشعور "الاغتراب"

لكن وقتها كان المذاق مختلف

كانت ليلة شتويه، عام يختتم ايامه في اواخر شهر ديسمبر، يعانق برودة فصل عشقته رغم قسوته ..

في تمام الثانية عشر إنتزعها من سكونها رنين الهاتف، بعدما اقنعت نفسها بفكرة فقدة, بعدما تخلصت من بقايا كلماته المبعثرة في رسائل قديمة ومزقت اشياء ذكرتها بايامها معه ، ظنت انها قد شفيت من سيطرتة الاشعوريه على قلبها وتفكيرها ،ترى هل كانت واهمه!! لماذا انتفض قلبها لمجرد سماع رنين الهاتف في ذلك الوقت بالتحديد ! كيف وقد تقبلت اسلاك الهاتف فكرة اختفاؤه وتاهت رسائله في دوائر البعد وخلف اسوار الصد.

دققت في رقم المتصل، رقم منزله؟..ايكون هو؟ .. لكن  الهاجس لم يستمر طويلا

اذا بأخته صديقة دراستها تاتيها بصوتها ذو الوتيره الواحده،ثرثاره كعادتها،تتحدث كثيرا مثلما كانت تفعل ايام المذاكرة والجامعه، علها نسيت أن تكمل قصة من قصصها التي لا تعنيها بشئ , بدأت بالحكي ،أسماء وأماكن ,أحداث متهاوية،الى أن نطقت اسمة ،الان فقد انتبهت تركها شرودها فالقصه هذه المرة تعنيها فقد كانت في يوم من الايام بطلتها ،كم وقفت لساعات وشهور وسنين على خشبة المسرح تؤدي دور العاشقه امام بطلها الى ان أسدل الستار ،لكنها كانت واهمه ..فلا زال هناك مشهد لم تؤديه بعد ، فلم تكن النهاية مفتوحه كما ظنت ،انه مشهد العقده …

"انهيار البطلة عندما تخبرها صديقتها المزيفة بخبر خطبة حبيبها لأخرى تعرفها جيدا.."

ترى من كانت وقتها ،ضعف سيطر على حواسها،تمكن منها ،هي التي لم تعتد البكاء أمامهم،أبكاها الخبر،فضحتها دموعها أمام قلبها المكابر،فظلت تردد :

"ليه عمل كده..وليه البني ادمه دي بالذات.."

انها لحظة خفوت أضواء المسرح..قرب لحظة اسدال الستار ..

تغلق الخط..ترتكز البطلة على ركبتيها..تداري دموعها بكفيها..تكتم صوت بكاءها

تتحرك الستار ببطء..وتصفيق حاد من جمهور فرح كثيرا بأداء الابطال..

المشهد التاني:

يرن جرس الهاتف..

-"ألو مين معايا..

-"أنا أخدت تليفون حضرتك من المجلة ،كنت عايز اعمل حوار عن كتابك .يا ترى ممكن امتى؟

-" اهلا بيك ممكن دلوقت اتفضل"

-"أكثر سؤال جه في بالي لما قريت كتابك..هل مريتي بتجربه معينه او معاناه خلتك تكتبي بالاحساس ده؟"

ابتسمت في صمت سؤال متكرر حد الملل ،ثم أجابته:

-"مريت بمشاعر حب وكره اتخنقت وفرحت،فشلت ونجحت، ولولا اللي جرحوني في حياتي انا ما كنتش مسكت القلم…

انا بادين لكل الي جرحوني بالولاء والفضل …

11^th of February

Although I am inside the crowd, I am watching. Only a drop of water in an angry sea, I am bedazzled by the faces of women, men and children who keep flocking into the throbbing heart of a revolution none of us imagined would happen now, none of us thought it would turn out to be so beautiful and become so precious with every drop of blood spilled, with every heart stopping in the middle of a chant.

I stand on a little triangle of an island close to the main "stone cake". The square is a sea over which red, white and black birds dance joyously. All of us, the birds and the people dance in unison to the rhythm of Shadia "He hasn’t seen the men, brown and strong, overcoming hard times.  He hasn’t seen the stubbornness in those eyes and the challenge, for he hasn’t been to Egypt". Shadia’s song reverberates among the hundreds of thousands of people, it gets mixed with chants of anger "leave", "leave now". "The people have ousted the regime". When did we substitute "have" with "want"? We no longer want the regime to go. We have made it go despite the fact "he" is still there, his hair dyed pitch black, his voice stable and confident. "He hasn’t seen the hope in the eyes of the young men and women. He hasn’t seen the work going on at night, and the will reborn, for he hasn’t been to Egypt".

I feel anger, love, hate, love, absolute overwhelming love that has been smothered, stabbed, hurled under the rubble of injustices. Now love, like a Phoenix, is being reborn from its own ashes. It spreads its huge wings over the throbbing heart of the huge crowd. Red, white and black birds, flying over our heads, exchange hugs up there occasionally touching a head or a cheek with light tender kisses. My kids are there shouting all the same. My friends are there, over their eyes a tearful cloud passes by and decides to stay. My new friends are there: Ahmad, Shady and young Mohamed from Dar Elsalam. Older Mohamed seems to be their coach with his shabby grey suit, rough skin and worn out face.

Hours on end we keep chanting, almost dancing to the rhythm of the revolution. Emma Goldman was right. One can’t share in a revolution unless we are allowed to dance. Old Mohamed offers us dried dates. I am about to say I don’t feel hungry. But when I look at his face, I take a couple of dates with a smile. I raise my red, white and black flag to kiss the other birds fluttering in the February clear sky. Only yesterday, our "daddy" appeared on TV three hours late, as usual, to declare he "will" stay in power for he "cannot" give up his responsibility towards us. "Oh beloved Egypt" if they could only understand!

I resume the chant "leave. Leave now. The people have ousted the regime. The people have…". I stop in the middle of the sentence. Old Mohamed is carried on a stretch to the nearby field hospital. I enquire. "Oh but he has a heart condition", his younger friends explain. "But why don’t you take him home?", I ask. "Well, we have taken him home last week when he had an attack", Shady says, "but he kept repeating: take me back. I want to die in Tahrir".

It is 5 p.m. The crowd is not tired. The birds fluttering over our heads are not tired. I feel worried for Mohamed as the handsome young doctor brings him back to us on a stretch. They place him gently on the grass, inches away from where we are still standing. He is dizzied by the shot he had. Then a scream is heard. A most joyous collective scream spreads like waves upon waves of a turbulent crazy sea.

What? Did he really leave?

Are they lying to us this time too?

Mubarak is gone! Is he really?

People cry and fall to the ground in a prostrating position. A thankful prayer is due. Women are crying. Tears spilling over faces. "raise your head up high, you are Egyptian". I see clearly the faces of the martyrs, Mohamed, Karim, Mary and I break into tears. I look back at old Mohamed, I fall to my knees "3am Mohamed, he is gone. Mubarak is over". He can’t move. But I can spot a faint smile on his lips, or is it my imagination! "He is gone. He is over", I keep mumbling, still in tears. "please, do not die now", my heart tells him. "Come back to life. We have done it. We "have" actually done it".

As he opens his eyes, my sobs mingle with the thundering ongoing scream of joy.   I feel light. I feel I can touch all the white, red and black birds up there. I hear the song coming from within: "He hasn’t seen the Nile hugged by the trees, he hasn’t listened to the songs in the full moon nights, for he hasn’t been to Egypt.