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Emile

6/19/2014

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Writing from the first workshop by Emile.
Picture
Painting by Majd Amouri
Emile

Why do I want to write?

In the deep darkness of my mind,
I breathe… 
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 
Their sea…
My sea…
blue and white
waving in silence
no seagulls
only sparrows gray
and a lot of concrete
dusty vehicles 
dusty pine trees and smiles

Time goes fast when we sit to eat
we do not pray before lunch
never did
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 shouting
more sleep
less hand gestures
more of nothing

Two houses 
one with a garden 
and one with a balcony

My mother wanted the balcony 
and then she missed the garden.

Gray, green 
and candle tales
tea and wine and later dinners 

Laughs
Bullets
Giggles
Bullets
Concrete…

Silence

***

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! 
Never mind, 
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! 

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