| The Frog That Flew
Day Seven
Out of nowhere they came and invaded the
skies of Damascus, thick dark low-lying clouds which turned the day into night. The whole
city lay silent under them for an eternity, then suddenly, there was an explosion, an
explosion the sound of which can never, ever, be described, but it sent such a shock wave
through the atmosphere that Mount Qasayun itself disappeared leaving no trace behind. Not
a single trace.
Then another explosion occurred, and Old
Damascus itself disappeared. Then another explosion
occurred and yet another part of the city disappeared, and the process went on and on,
until all of Damascus had completely disappeared. At that instant, an ocean, a veritable
ocean fell out of the sky, and the place where Damascus had existed just a short while ago
became completely submerged. Only a small island floated on top of the raging waters, an
ever so tiny island, crowded from shore to shore with haggard-looking people of different
ages and colors. Were they survivors I wonder, or a new creation? I don’t
know.
This was the dream I had last night, and it
was not the first time I had dreamed of my city Damascus getting destroyed. No. Damascus
had gotten destroyed quite a few times in my dreams, once by a new round of meteoric
bombardments, and again, by a sudden volcanic eruption, and one time, by a series of major
earthquakes, and finally, by a surprise Israeli nuclear attack.
Still, there was something different about
this dream. In all my previous dreams I had participated in the events, I had tried to
save Damascus, I had tried to help people. I had done something. I had achieved something.
There had been a sense of adventure involved in those dreams, a sense of heroism,
defiance, participation, fulfillment, warmth and love. Yes, love. There had been something
positive involved in spite of all the destruction going on.
In this latest dream, however, I did
nothing. Nothing. I just…observed the happenings from the window of my room where,
somehow, I was isolated and protected. I observed the destruction of my home-city with
stupor, and perhaps indifference, then I went back to my desk, my books and my pen, as if
nothing had occurred.
What is the meaning of this, I wonder? Am I
giving up the fight while I am still in the beginning? While I haven’t done anything
yet. While I haven’t achieved anything.
In the dream in which Damascus got destroyed
by a nuclear attack, and while the fiery winds were blowing everywhere, there came this
Shaykh, this Imam, sporting a long red beard and a big green turban. He was running in
streets, gesturing frantically and shouting: “This is what you brought upon
yourselves people, and had you feared Allah, he would have protected you.”
When the Shaykh passed by me, I stopped him
and said: “How dare you utter such nonsense? How dare you blaspheme against God?
War is something that He ordained, and it would not matter to Him how it is fought, be it
with swords or nuclear weapons. It’s all the same to Him. You sanctify one war, you
sanctify all wars. You justify one massacre, you justify all massacres. Read your Holy
Book, sir, read it well, the ‘chapter of the skunk’ in particular, it will tell
you all about permanent war and temporary peace, and all about heaven and hell, and the
splitting of the atom.”
Now, the dream proceeded for long after
this, it did not end here, there were still many adventures to come it, yet this
particular part of it stayed with me for long after my waking-up, for long after I had had
it occur the first time around. It is still with me now, although I have long stopped
having it.
Now I like this dream. I like it much better
than the one I had yesterday. Why did I have to have such a dream anyway? I mean, the
preceding day had been peaceful enough.
Day Eight
Today, I felt like going for a walk in the
streets of Old Damascus, so I did. I often go for such walks by myself, and I always feel
like a tourist when I do. Well, I actually feel like a tourist even when I walk through
the streets of my own neighborhood. I don’t belong anywhere really. That’s my
problem. I don’t belong to this city. I don’t belong to this country. I
don’t belong to this world. I only belong to my room and my books. And even they are
becoming rather tiresome and unsatisfying of late.
And for a time, for a fleeting period of
time, there was a person in my life to whom I had briefly belonged, but that had been a
long time ago along time ago. I am alone now, all alone, and I think I am going to stay
alone for the rest of my life.
Day Nine
Today I received a letter from my brother
Hisham. This was the second letter he had sent me eversince the joined the army about
eighteen months ago. (As for me, when my turn comes to serve in the army, I think
I’ll have my father bribe some government official and make me serve at home, I am
not really cut out for this kind of experience).
My relationship with Hisham isn’t
really that strong. I mean I love him enough, but we are just too different. He and I, I
am the anti-social educated type, and he is an ignorant rogue. I think it is genetically
impossible for there to be an educated rogue. I don’t understand why, but that seems
to be the case. Still, Hisham and I are brothers, and like all brothers we have our share
of joint adventures.
It was Hisham, for instance, the one who
explained to me the basics of sex when I came of age, ( and
if only he could know how timely his explanations were, ah). To add a more
substantive quality to his explanations, Hisham had used some Scandinavian pornographic
magazines filled from cover to cover with nude photographs of men and women in all
different sorts of sexual positions. Hisham
let me keep these magazines for several days to... study them, as it were, on my own. And
that was exactly what I proceeded to do.
Studying those magazines proved to be a very
interesting task, indeed. For instance, I noticed how the publishers were trying to
satisfy all different sorts of tastes in them: there were women and men of all ages there,
of all shapes, of all colors. There was this one picture of a red hair woman, probably in
her thirties, with her hair tied back in a knot and wearing a pair of really elegant
glasses. There was a look on intelligence and independence in her eyes. She looked very
much like a professional business woman, considering that formal jacket she was wearing,
though she was wearing it in a way that revealed both her breasts, the rest of her body
already being nude. She was sitting on an office-type chair spreading her legs apart as
best as she could, thus giving the interested observer a really good look at her elongated
vagina.
Now what type of men would be attracted to a
woman like that, or to a picture of this sort? Definitely not me, rather it is my father.
I can say that with certainty you know,
because father did use to have a secretary that greatly resembled that woman. And yes,
they did have an affair together.
As for me, there was only one photograph in
all of those magazines that managed to get me really interested, not only sexually, but
also…socially. It was a photograph of a young naked brunette with light green eyes
leaning casually with her naked body against a white wall. Her breasts were the size of
the famous Mediterranean oranges, her pubic hair thin, and there was a look of calm in her
eyes, calm mixed with playfulness and curiosity.
In his letter, Hisham reminded me of those
magazines, and of another incident that I had forgotten. The incident was more recent, in
fact, it had happened a mere month before Hisham’s enlistment.
On the afternoon of a very routine day,
Hisham dragged me out of the house, and took me to that unseemly place called Somariyyeh,
probably the poorest and filthiest suburb of Damascus. Suburb? Hell, it is what can easily
be called a squatter settlement, to use a term I have once read in an English geography
book.
Hisham led me by the hand through its sinewy
and dirty streets, until we reached a building that seemed about to collapse at any
instant. We climbed the broken stairs to the third floor, where Hisham knocked on one of the doors. A fatty-esh middle aged woman
opened the door and invited us in. As Hisham was about to respond to her kind invitation,
I pulled my hand free from his, and ran downstairs, everything having become clear to me
at that instant, and I was about to puke. Hisham followed me downstairs and tried to
convince to go back.
“What the hell is the matter with you
brother? Isn’t it about time you became a man?” Hisham asked.
“Perhaps,” I replied. “But I just don’t think this is the
right way for me.”
“And which is the right way for you
asshole, the Naqshbandi Way?[1]”
Yap, Hisham did have that rye sense of humor.
“Again perhaps. Bye.” And I left,
smiling. I liked Hisham’s little quip. I really did. I mean, as an atheist I couldn’t help it, could I?.
Hisham came back late that night, but we
never talked about this incident again. Then came this letter:
“I had so much semen taken out of me
that night, I was lucky to stay alive. I went back three more times to that place before I
got enlisted. And thank God I did Tuffy, thank God I did. Because the only asses I can see
around me here are stinky, hairy rough peasant asses, definitely not goof for fucking. So,
the only faithful companion I have nowadays is my right hand. How about you? Are you still
a virgin? Oh, God knows if I had your looks, I would make a woman out of every virgin in
the neighborhood. But then that’s your problem, and who am I to interfere,
right?”
At the end of the letter nonetheless, my
brother did interfere:
“If you want a sure girl, a girl that
really loves you, because I think love is what turns on, then get Susan. She is about your
age, full-bodied, and worships the ground that you walk on. If you don’t believe me,
ask Muzna. Come on, don’t wait for a revelation from the Seventh Heaven, do it
now.”
But I won’t of course. I won’t. There are many reasons
for this negative attitude of mine, but the most important one is that Susan is as
full-bodied as a thin elephant. Now Hisham might like them this way, but I
don’t. And whatever makes him think that I am a virgin? Ah, if only I were. Ah, if only he knew. But then how could he? How could he? I have always led a secretive life. I have always guarded my privacy.
[1] A famous Sufi order.
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lust for salvation, Brother, as though it were a woman, and I - a man.
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