An Oriental
Tapestry
The "Glorious" Movement
I
The wave
of sycophancy
that is sweeping
across
the country
on this eve of the great celebration
of the memory
of a dark and dire event
in our contemporary history,
I must say,
with all due honesty,
sickens
me.
Yes, it sickens me.
For what
is this “Glorious” Movement
but a mere change
in the name of the tyrant,
while tyranny
itself, while infamy
infect our lives still -
that the best of our men
and women,
who continuously speak
of revolution, justice and morality,
their minds diseased with fear
and hypocrisy
for
the love of God,
for the love of country,
for
the love of family,
have taken to transforming
our slavery,
in
words,
to a triumph of the human spirit,
to an affirmation of human freedom,
and dignity.
Dignity?
How deeper yet
can we sink
into infamy?
How sicker
yet
can I expect
to get?
II
Elsewhere,
in some
other country,
fireworks are always dazzling.
But here,
in good old
Damascus,
no
one is dazzled by them.
Elsewhere,
on such
an occasion,
there will be a popular rejoicing
in the streets.
But here,
in
good old Damascus,
no one is rejoicing.
The people
are not a in celebratory mood,
it seems,
on this Glorious Occasion.
Everybody,
everywhere,
is going about his business,
with an air of indifference.
And
video-rentals
will
definitely increase
this
evening,
and a few more satellite dishes
will get installed by then,
as the people will try
to avoid
the official talking-heads
commemoration
of a day
whose importance lies only
in that little piece of macabre reality
that is the continuing conspiracy
against the freedom
of my people.
III
I try to
phone you,
but the lines are tangled
the
lines are always tangled
in this third world country;
the Glorious Movement,
it seems,
has not effectively touched yet
the
communication system.
And we just have to wait and see.
I try to
go over
to
your place,
but instead,
I get stuck in the elevator
for two hours.
The Glorious Movement,
it
seems,
has not been sufficiently extended yet
to the power company.
And
we just have to wait and see.
I go back
home
and try to splash some
water
on my face,
but unsurprisingly,
there is no running water
in my apartment today.
The Glorious Movement,
it
seems,
has not yet delved, deeply enough,
into the problems of the water supply.
And we just have to wait and see.
So now I
am lying in my bed,
with a thousand murderous thoughts
crowding
up in my head,
knowing
that there will be no killing,
of course,
but I am quickly developing
a second ulcer.
Notes
Written in 1995
|