Why do I want to write?
In the deep darkness of my mind,
clutching for an exit, for a lost child
I’ve tried to bury it, I tried very hard
But there it’s back, stronger than ever
fierce as a wild horse
black as its hair
blind by light
driven by ink
It could be a taste of freedom
a taste of death
a willing death
so painful that you would beg for more
And as I fight through it
I bleed blood and salt
And I breathe out
knowing that it has never disappeared
I can count the times I’ve seen my sea
blue and white
waving in silence
only sparrows gray
and a lot of concrete
dusty pine trees and smiles
Time goes fast when we sit to eat
we do not pray before lunch
and never will
Rounded fried sweets
I’d like to call them “Submarines”
painted with a golden crust
my grandmother’s best
There is always a sense of waiting
waiting for more money
less hand gestures
more of nothing
one with a garden
and one with a balcony
My mother wanted the balcony
and then she missed the garden.
and candle tales
tea and wine and later dinners
My name is Emile. I write it in its French version with an “e” at the end.
It comes from Greek “Amylous.”
A “Great Fighter” it means, and I am not. At least in that sense.
A black and white photograph hung on a blank wall.
That’s all what I have of the man who I was named after, my grandfather.
I wonder if he ever asked himself about the meaning of his name. But, if he did, I bet that they told him: “It’s a Saint's name.”
Names: they possess, label us, shape us and we grow to fit into their letters, their vowels.
The “Os” the “As” the ح and the “eees”
I can taste red apples in my “M”
and smell black cats in my silent “e.”
A foreign name in an Arabic country!
What a cruelty!
The tiredness of having to correct them.
It’s not “Ameer” or “Ameen” or even “Email!”
You know what!
Call me whatever you like
You may even fancy a “Mustafa” for me
it will suit me, I dare,
as long as you never meet the fighter in my name!