The Ode to Love and Loss

 'About the echo of love, that became an echo of the past.'

#If_You_Go_Away

Voyaging, departing, probing the realm of possibilities - these notions shaped my teen years. I was eternally curious, a young explorer constantly peering beyond the horizons of the known, yet to grasp the precious worth of the present and the power of potential lying dormant within me.

The Power of The Present

I was in constant search of what lies beyond the world, of what lurks behind the veil of the future. A teenager yet to learn the value of cherishing the present moment, of trusting in his own potential.

Many of those desires have since been fulfilled. Yet, now, I would gladly trade all my gains to return to that distant moment. But what once seemed possible, has become an impossibility. You were swept away by the current, my friend, and you sat looking back, lamenting over missed opportunities.

During a transcontinental visit, I found myself at my favorite place - "Raml Station".

The weather was autumnal, but the crowd was suffocating. I sat at a café by the sea, observing the streets and the passers-by.

Memories started flooding my mind, piercing through my heart like a dagger. On a day like this, under a similar autumnal sky, I left an accounting lecture, escaping into the depths of the streets in search of freedom, of fantasy.

The streets were nearly empty of pedestrians, and the weather was drenched in autumn. The clouds were heavy, pregnant with rain that was yet to fall, I was a teenager then, not yet seventeen, riding an almost empty tram from El-Shatby to Raml Station. I stroll down the long road descending towards Fouad Street, where the cinema awaited me, and imagination was within my grasp.

The Power of Music

Before the show began, they used to play various songs, and among those, Shirley Bassey's "If You Go Away" left an indelible impression on my mind.

Her velvety, wide-ranging voice seeped into my consciousness and soul, like a drug transporting me to a future where everything was possible, and where this bleak reality had no existence. A painful melody scattered in the realm of my senses, a voice more beautiful than the music that softly faded beside it, taking flight, clinging to the last threads of love.

Her lament was not a promise or a plea. I did not feel she was promising him a better world if he stayed, nor begging him to stay so she wouldn't fall apart. What I truly felt was an attempt at failed rebellion, not a rebellion against a lover, or against the world, but a rebellion against love itself.

She mourns the early moments of love:

When our love was new, and our hearts were high,

When the day was young, and the night was long.

And the moon stood still for the night bird's song.

But this has changed. She does not know why it changed. No one knows why it changes. But it always changes. These moments that flash through the course of our lives; they continue to captivate us for the remainder of our days. And she is powerless to rebel against them. She contemplates the possibility of reproducing these moments and sailing in the sun's rays, drifting in the wind's course:

We'll sail on the sun; we'll ride on the rain.

We'll talk to the trees and wander the wind.

But this is no longer possible. Even if she tried to forcefully bend the world to fulfill her desires, she would not succeed, for a simple reason, that her lover himself has changed:

There'll be nothing left in the world to trust.

 Just an empty room full of empty space

 Like the empty look I see on your face

And love requires two parties to be involved. As for the love that consumes only one party, it is either a trap, or a philosophical position that reshapes the world from the perspective of pain.

The Paradox of Love and Loss

The song transformed in the depths of my soul and memory into a question. A question about the essence of this wonderful thing we call love.

This thing capable of transcending our differences and cultures and unifying our feelings and goals, as infinite as the universe and as narrow as a needle's eye, a phenomenon capable of bringing out the best in us, and capable of destroying everything.

I do not claim to have known the answer. But perhaps I have come to be filled with more questions.

Perhaps I no longer think that love is a shining moment in the horizon of the past. But I have come to tend to think that it is a bond, a journey, a dialogue between two parties.

For this reason, it has multiple social and psychological dimensions. Perhaps it is a journey through the currents of barriers and time, aiming to form a bond and maintain it. But the creation of the bond aims at its sustainability and maintenance. Because its loss is devastating. But the bond and dialogue do not necessarily have to be between two parties only, it could be between several parties, between a party and a meaning, between a party and a value or a goal or any other thing.

So, if love is a feeling seeking to gain communication with something, and the feeling is just a mental or emotional state that can change, why does it change at one party and does not change at the other party?

Does this feeling permeate the individual's existence and embed itself in his entity and reshape it at one of the parties, while it does not do the same at the other party?

What is the reason then?

If love is a mental state in which communication occurs between two parties. Is the goal of love communication?

And if its goal is communication, why does the loss happen?

And why do we strive to lose what we communicated with?

Between love and loss, my thoughts revolved as I sat in the dimly lit cinema hall listening to the song and waiting to drown in the beautiful dream world on the screen.

The song captured the essence of love, and revealed its terrifying beauty, and did not present loss as a possible probability, but presented it as the inevitable result of love.

The song did not provide a fiery emotion that suited my teenage feelings at that distant moment, but it took me with it to moments of quiet despair, and to the deep realization that love, as it is eternal, is also transient and temporary.

But it did not give me an explanation. I have not found the answer yet.

Somehow my belief began to lean towards the belief that it all has to do with our relationship with the past, with our relationship with ourselves, with the people we were in the past, and our desire to keep them. In our attempt to discover ourselves, and our hatred for what time makes us.

Fear of Loss

Perhaps the whole matter lies in the fear of loss, the loss of the opportunity that was in our hands, the loss of the feeling that we once lived, the loss of the current moment and the shift from it to something different.

When I ponder deeply, I discover that giving up love itself, and leaving this feeling, as a stance from life, behind us, and drawing inspiration from Shirley Bassey's quiet acceptance of reality and clinging to this inspiring moment of feeling satisfied from our current moment, can achieve what we dream of in communication with ourselves, as a fundamental moment and as a basis for communication with anything else.

Or perhaps I am trying to convince myself of this position, as I sit almost a quarter of a century later in the same space on the planet Earth, contemplating the being I was in a past day.

 

I’m Not Knowing Myself

'About the fabrication of art, that surpassed art'

(#Ana_Mesh_Aarefni), “#I’m_not_knowing_myself”…

I came back that night stuffed with dark thoughts, and whenever thoughts stuffed me, my stomach screamed demanding to be treated likewise. 

I  opened the fridge and looked for something end my gloom. My eyes glimpsed a herring hiding behind the green onions and two tomatoes, so I stretched out trembling fingers from excitement. 

I pulled out the small treasure and stood looking at it greedily. This is a small feast that suits my mood perfectly. And to adjust the “mood” even more, I took out my phone and turned-on YouTube Music, trusting its algorithm’s choices that always suit me. 

I started frying the herring on the fire and its oil started dripping temptingly. The first song ended with the herring being done, I put it in the plate, then I found Al-Hakimdar “singer Abbasat” shouting: (Ana) ;“I am”.

I paid attention and smiled silently, if YouTube’s algorithm was living with me in that moment, it wouldn’t have chosen a better song for me. Abbasat continued: (Ana, ana, ana, aaaana, ana): “I am, I am, I am, IIII am, I am.”

I chopped the onion, and tears started falling from my eyes, and the singer shouted, ( Ta’abt men el mofaja’a wa nazalt dam3ti); “I’m tired of the surprise and my tear fell”, and for some reason I found myself laughing sarcastically. 

This song stirs up contradictory feelings in me since the first time I heard it until now. The song in its words and in its appearance seems very contrived, maybe even superficial. It contradicts everything we know about singing of the “man” in general. There is no man who sings to his “mirror”, we are not used to a man singing saying: (“Qouli eih ya mirayti, qouli eih hikayti” ); “Tell me, oh my mirror, tell me what is my story.” We are used to the image of the woman who sings to her mirror, and the image is associated in our minds with “Snow White” and the evil queen who holds a genie in her mirror who confirms to her that she is the most beautiful woman in the world, every time age stabs her more, and she loses confidence in herself. 

But for a man to sing to his mirror, this is something we have never heard before. Maybe we think that the word: (mirayti); “my mirror” came to adjust the rhyme with: (hikayti, wa nihayti) “my story, and my end” in the rest of the verse. Add to this: who is this “man” who confesses with utmost simplicity that his tears fall, like women do? All this might provoke sarcasm in us and make us look at the song superficially and belittle it. 

The strange thing is that this was my feeling at first when I listened to it for the first time. He was saying (ana mesh 3arefni, ana taht menni, ana mesh ana) “I don’t know myself, I’m lost, I’m not myself anymore.” 

This is an existential issue steeped in philosophy. How can it be sung in this popular and colloquial way? How can it be sung so abruptly? 

Perhaps we only know one similar song: (Je’to laa a’arifu min ayna!); “I don’t know where I came from!” by Abdel Halim Hafez, taken from the poem “Al-Talasim” by the heavy and deep Arab poet Eliya Abu Madi, composed by the heavy-duty musician Abdul Wahab, and placed in a dramatic context for the film (Al-Khata’ya); “The Sins” and the song does not speak frankly about the identity crisis, but rather about the ordinary questions of origin and destiny: Where did we come from and where are we going? So, who is this popular singer who takes these huge meanings and puts them in a popular song saying: (La di malamihy, wala shakly shakly, wala da ana); “This is not my features. This is not my shape. This is not me.”? What is this nonsense? Perhaps that’s why I felt the song was being underestimated for the first time, however, in somehow, I was taken by the performance of Al-Hakimdar.

Despite my apparent contempt for the song, I felt that it moved something deep inside me and that the song somehow expressed me.

I ignored it at first, but every time I hear it, I feel the same contradictory feelings. I feel sarcastic about the song and sing along with Al-Hakimdar mockingly while I laugh disdainfully, but inside, and without really admitting this to myself, I feel his tearing, his burning, his sincerity as he screams (Ana mesh aarafni); “I am not recognizing myself” and despite my sarcasm, I feel that I too am not recognizing me. 

I sat down to the plate of herring drowned in tahini and oil and started to wonder why! Why am I feeling this way? 

Maybe Al-Hakimdar wasn’t really an artist. Maybe he had the feeling of an artist, maybe he had the desire to be an artist, maybe he had the voice of an artist. But neither the feeling, nor the desire nor the voice is what makes an artist. 

They taught us for a long time that art requires a magical formula named a “TALANT” that no one understands its essence. It is added to magical spices that give it an irresistible flavor, its name is study, then the mixture is put in a baking dish that is baked on a low heat called experience. Only then can you call yourself this name that makes your skin crawl “artist”, and you can call any “crap” you produce “art”. 

The Hakimdar was not an artist in this sense. In the movie: (Enta elly hatghanni ya Monem); “You’re the one who’s going to sing, Monem!” the poor young man with the beautiful voice comes and his neighborhood’s people sells everything they’ve got to support him in studying MUSIC at the conservatory, for him to learn and becomes a real artist. Before that he can’t be an artist. 

Abbast didn’t study at the conservatory, maybe he never heard of it in his life. I remember that I first knew him through the program (Hewar Sareeh Gedan) when Mona El-Husseini hosted him and mocked him and asked him: “Do you have handsomeness as Abdel Halim?” He answered her: “Yes of course, I have it, and the audience shall judge that”. Abbast didn’t know the meaning of the word “handsomeness” and maybe he thought it was a quality in the voice, or a way of performance, and that’s why he confirmed that, “Abdel Halim frankly is a man of art”. 

Abbast didn’t understand that “handsomeness” doesn’t mean hair combed with oil, excessive obesity, giant belly, and that the rules of a romantic singer are to be handsome, thin and delicate with dreamy eyes so that he “appeals” to girls who swoon over his image. Abbast didn’t understand the relationship between appearance or body shape and art, and that’s why he answered with “gimmick” that “the audience judges.”

Al-Hakimdar was really feeling confident, fully convinced of what he offers, drawing his conviction and success from his popular circle that likes what he offers and asks for it in their celebrations and listened to his songs, despite the fact that he did not graduate from the conservatory, nor did he know how to write music, nor did he know anything about music theory, nor art history, he impressed wide segments of people. Segments that think they have the right to question their identity and existence without knowing Heidegger or Russell. Abbaset believed that he is an artist, he was convinced he is an artist, he fabricated art… literally, but without knowing that he is doing so. 

Maybe this is what made me laugh the first time I heard that song. It is a blatant fabrication of this attitude towards life. Especially the part where he hums his voice and says “Mmmmmmm”. If a comedian had performed this song in the same way, people would have fallen on their backs laughing, but Abbasat was not a comedian, and he did not sing this song intending comedy, but he was convinced of what he said, he thought that he had the right to express his inner feelings and emotions in this way without knowing that there are “other people” who monopolize this issue, of questioning existence, for themselves, considering it only a matter for philosophers to discuss. 

Abbasat was honest in his emotion only, that was all he had, and somehow, magically, this feeling was conveyed to us. We realized that it was not a joke, and that it was not a monopoly for some people, and that he did not claim fabrication in these words, nor in this feeling that he felt, nor in this attitude towards life that he felt; we dropped the barriers in ourselves… then we discovered in our depths that we just don’t want to feel it. That we want to hide from this feeling; that we don’t know ourselves, behind mocking this feeling, to pretend falsely that we know ourselves, even though in reality we do not know ourselves. We do not know that we have learned not to admit our tears, and to leave the mirror as a monopoly for women to talk to themselves in it, and to leave existential questions for philosophers only, so they can determine our answers for us.

Therefore, Abbasat's impact on us is astounding. It leaves us conflicted, questioning our very existence. Do we truly understand ourselves and our true essence, or are we merely pretending to be sensitive, pondering over our romanticism? Are we adopting a conscious and philosophical stance, claiming a loss of consciousness, trying to appear more profound than we truly are? Or are we, in fact, lost in the complexities of life, unaware of our own identity, hiding behind the pretense of fabrication?

I paused and gazed at the gleaming stove cover as I lifted it to brew a cup of tea, lost in my thoughts and contemplating.

Al-Hakimdar compels us to face ourselves, confronting the mirrors within our souls. He poses a profound question: Do we truly recognize the individuals who confront us on the other side of our reflection, or are we faced with unfamiliar faces?