الخروج من كوكب الأرض

" A Mocking Smile at the face of Titans" Ever since my eyes fell upon that image; a young Palestinian kid standing defiantly in front of an Israeli tank, hurling stones, I have been haunted by profound thoughts of freedom and independence.  Just pause and think about it: a fragile stone against a massive iron tank, a child against a trained soldier. It gives me goosebumps. This image stirs up every ounce of respect and admiration within me. It has become my sanctuary, the vision I turn to in my mind whenever I feel broken or defeated. To feel defeated is a choice, and the desire to resist is equally a choice, even if you are only hurling stones at a tank. But that second choice? That is the choice of a true victor. It is the choice of someone who has reached a deep, unshakeable sense of independence and forced the entire world to acknowledge it. Fast forward to today, and you can see how this generation, which once threw stones at their enemy, has grown up to shake the very f...

"A tale of time and value" "شبكة روايات التفاعلية- Riwayat Network Forum" Amidst the old belongings I'd shelved for ages, by pure chance, I found them. Buried in these ancient, neglected items, lay a weathered manuscript, stiffened by time. It was the first novel I ever attempted during my university days, when a personal computer was a curious creature, I barely understood. This tale spun a story of a young man who discovers that his family are extraterrestrial beings. Yet, he conceals this secret and grapples with the realization that he, too, might be an alien, but chooses to live as an earthly human, deciding his own destiny. Drafted at the dawn of the millennium on Microsoft Word, it was printed on A4 sheets, then hidden away in a blue folder, surrounded by mountains of books.   Among Forgotten Things I held the manuscript gently, opening it with caution. Memories flooded back of my first time writing it. I didn't own a computer back then. Instead...

  "A Math Memoir- Series"  When I started middle school, there was no subject I hated more than math. In primary school, math had been mostly simple: addition, subtraction, multiplication, long division, drawing graphs, and calculating the areas of basic shapes, especially circles. None of it was impossible for me. I just hated it. Numbers and Dread Then middle school began, and math suddenly became something else. We were introduced to sets and number theory, and to me they felt like a foreign language. Math class turned into a quiet hour of daydreaming and gloom. Our math teacher was a quiet man in his thirties. He always tried to add a little humor to the lesson, and he explained everything with real effort. He would fill the blackboard with examples and keep solving problems until the bell rang. But did I listen? Not once. One day, he pulled me out of my daydream by asking me a question directly. I froze. He stood there waiting for an answer, while my face gave him the cl...

 "A Math Memoir- Series"  In primary school, our math teacher was a handsome, dignified man in his fifties. He dressed well, wore sunglasses, and carried himself with the calm confidence of someone important. He was also a swindler. A Doctorate in Trickery His face was always serious, as if he had been assigned a secret mission that no one else in the world could be trusted with. He kept trying to convince us to attend his private lessons. Not because we were weak students. Not because we needed help. No. His offer was far more impressive than that. He wanted us to believe that he knew the exam before anyone else did. Sometimes he even hinted that he helped prepare it. “I want you to get the highest marks,” he would say, with a grave and respectful expression, as if he were speaking to fellow professors and not a room full of children. “I will give you the questions, and I will show you how to answer them.” Back then, in the mid-nineties, our final exams were prepared at the ...

   “About letting go, which I thought meant maturity.”   #Let_it_GO_! It was during a quiet movie night, just me and the kids. A beautiful song began to play, and suddenly, I was swept away, carried back to a version of myself from so many years ago—a boy I can now barely recognize. A heavy wave of melancholy washed over me. I wanted so desperately to reach out and hold that younger version of myself, but he remained a ghost, just out of my grasp. In the complex, woven tapestry of our lives, there are decisions we make in the heat of the moment, or in the deep, quiet dark of despair, that leave permanent scars on our souls. One of the heaviest choices I ever wrestled with—almost without realizing I was doing it—was simply letting go of my belief in love. I wasn’t just walking away from romance; I was tearing out the very cornerstone of my existence, abandoning the one idea that had kept me standing for so long. Goodbye to Love   Love, in all its beautiful shapes, i...

 'About the echo of love, that became an echo of the past.' #If_You_Go_Away Traveling, leaving, reaching toward the endless kingdom of what might be; these were the quiet voices that shaped my teenage years. I was endlessly curious, a young explorer forever standing on tiptoe, trying to see beyond the horizon. I did not yet understand the quiet beauty of the present moment, nor the sleeping power buried somewhere deep inside me. The Power of the Present I was always chasing what lay just beyond the world, always trying to pull back the heavy curtain of the future. I was only a boy then, a boy who had not yet learned how to hold the present gently in his hands, or how to trust the hidden strength of his own soul. Today, many of those wild desires have come true. And yet, I would trade every victory for the chance to breathe that distant moment once more. But what was once so effortlessly possible has now become a ghost. We let the river carry us away, my friend. And now we sit o...

'عن افتعال الفن؛ الذي تجاوز الفن' عدتُ في تلك الليلةِ مُتخمًا بالأفكارِ السوداء، وأنا كلمّا اتخمتني الأفكارُ صرخت معدتي تُطالبُ بالمعاملة بالمثل. ذهبتُ إلى الثلاجةِ ففتحتُها ورحتُ أبحثُ عن شيءٍ أدفنُ فيه كآبتي. لمحت عينيّ رنجةً مختبئةً وراء البصل الأخضر وثمرتي طماطم، فمددتُ لهم أصابعًا مرتعشةً من الانفعالِ. أخرجتُ الكنز الصغير ووقفتُ أنظر له في جشع. هذه وليمةٌ صغيرة تناسب الـ "مود" تمامًا. ولضبط الـ "مود" أكثر، أخرجتُ هاتفي وشغّلتُ الـ يوتيوب ميوزك، لثقتي في اختياراته التي تناسبني دومًا. بدأتُ في تشويح الرنجة على النار فراح زيتُها يتساقط في إغراء. انتهت الأغنية الأولى مع نضج الرنجة، وضعتُها في الطبق، ثم وجدتُ الحكمدار يصدح "أنا". انتبهتُ وابتسمتُ في صمت، لو كانت خوارزمية اليوتيوب تعيش معي في تلك اللحظة، لما اختارت لي أغنيةً أفضل. أكمل عباسط "أنا، أنا، أنا، آآآنا، أنا". رحتُ أقطّع البصل، فراحت الدموعُ تنزل من عينيّ، والحكمدار يصدح " تعبت من المفاجأة ونزلت دمعتي"، ولسببٍ لا أعرفهُ وجدّتني أضحكُ في سُخريّة. تثير هذه الأغنية في نفسي...